


Learning it the Hard Way

by AZGirl



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Families of Choice, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 69
Words: 124,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8842798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: D’Artagnan couldn’t dismiss the feeling that this was the beginning of the end of their friendships. A multi-chapter story written in honor of Celticgal1041’s birthday.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Celticgal1041](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/gifts).



> This story is dedicated to Celticgal1041 in honor of her 2015 and 2016 birthdays. Don't forget to wish her a happy birthday!
> 
> Please Note: Because real life is very busy at the moment, I will only be posting ONE chapter per week. My apologies for this first part being so short; next week’s chapter will be quite a bit longer.  
> .

**ooooooo**

“We are all one – and if we don’t know it, we learn it the hard way.” – Bayard Rustin 

**ooooooo**

**Prologue**

It all happened so fast. 

One minute they were riding towards Paris after a successful mission, and the next they were under attack. 

One moment they were laughing at something Porthos had just said about the Red Guards, and the next they were fighting for their lives. 

One minute they were four exhausted men looking forward to a night’s rest in a real bed, and the next they were two men helping their injured friends stay alive. 

It all happened so fast. Yet, when d’Artagnan looked back on those moments, time seemed to have learned a few new tricks, speeding up and slowing down as it pleased and in the end, had seemingly changed his life forever. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_

**ooooooo**

 

 **Next week** : Chapter One: Hollow Victory


	2. Chapter One: Hollow Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story/History Notes: These are denoted by an * and explained at the end of each chapter. At times I did change historical facts to fit my story, but for these notes, I have made every attempt to get my details correct. If I have incorrectly noted something, please let me know and I will make changes. Not all chapters will have endnotes.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter One: Hollow Victory**

On the day that they were attacked, the four men had been gone for weeks on a mission to the western coast of France. Rumors of a plot to destroy part of _La Royale*_ in the port of Brest, located in Brittany, had put King Louis in a tizzy. On Cardinal Richelieu’s advice, the King decided to send some Musketeers to investigate and deal with the rumors. 

When they had arrived in town, it had not taken them long to discover that the rumors were at least partially true. Two fathers, whose sons were sailors that had died in an accident on board one of the ships, were angry they were not going to receive the meagre pensions* due to them. Such a benefit was paid out only for deaths occurring in the line of duty. The young men had not been on duty at the time, and had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

In a fit of wrathful grief, the men had begun threatening to destroy the ship their sons had died on to make a point to the King. But that’s all they were – threats. The ships were never in any real danger; a clerk at the customs house, having overheard the carelessly tossed around words, had acted too hastily in passing on the supposed threats. 

Essentially, it was a wasted trip, but d’Artagnan and his friends allowed themselves a day of rest by the seashore as a reward before returning to Paris. 

A little more than three days outside of Paris, they were attacked without any warning of impending danger. They had been riding on the outskirts of a forest trading stories back and forth, when the sound of several – too many – pistols firing split the air. Immediately, they each grabbed hold of their weapons and quickly dismounted from their horses in order to avoid being such easy targets. 

As they regained their footing, Aramis pointed south towards the direction of the forest. They fired back and heard a couple of cries of pain. 

That’s when it happened. 

Their hits had ultimately not done much good in the moment, because another volley of gunfire immediately rocketed towards them seconds later as they made their way towards some cover. D’Artagnan, who had gone in the direction Aramis had headed, glanced back just in time to see Athos’s head snap back and to the left before the man dropped like a stone to the ground, the older man’s head bouncing off the hard, dry ground. He heard someone yelling and realized that it was him as he started towards his fallen friend. 

Less than ninety seconds after the first shot had been fired, and they were down to three – perhaps forever. He immediately shook his head to banish that thought from it. Athos was alive, and they would make it through this battle – there was no other possible outcome.  

Before he could go more than a few steps, the bandits who had been firing at them emerged from the trees, yelling and brandishing swords and other long blades. 

Porthos, who had been closest to Athos when he fell, was the first to reach their fallen comrade. From the determined look on the man’s face, d’Artagnan knew it would take cannon fire to remove him from their friend’s side while Athos was unconscious and vulnerable. 

Five men came at them. Just before he engaged in his own battle, he saw that two of the men were heading towards where Porthos standing his ground. Normally, such odds would not be much of a challenge for Porthos, but in keeping Athos from harm, his range of movement would be severely hampered. Porthos needed to be extra careful he didn’t expose their unconscious friend to further attack even though it increased the man’s own chances of being hurt as a result. 

In the heat of the moment, d’Artagnan lost track of his friends as he also fought two of the five men, one of which had a bloodied rip in his sleeve, likely from one of their pistols. Only one of the two was any serious threat to him. The shorter of the two was nowhere near as proficient with a sword, yet he was quite cunning.  It was obvious that the two men had previously worked as a team. The tall one would distract him with sword work, while the short one would attack from another side. The hits he took during the fight were primarily from the short man, and he gained a split lip and bruised ribs as a result. 

But however cunning the short man was, the two had not counted on the fact that d’Artagnan had been trained by both Athos and Porthos in sword work and hand-to-hand combat. There had been many times during his training, both before and after he’d received his commission from the king, that he had been simultaneously attacked by two or three of his friends.  

Therefore, he knew how to use a disastrous situation to his advantage. Knocked to the ground by the short man, d’Artagnan used a technique Porthos taught him that required taking a hit first in order to overcome his opponent. The hit to his ribs was worth the main gauche he was able to deliver into the shorter man’s neck in return. 

The taller man, likely shocked that d’Artagnan had killed his friend, became sloppy with rage. It was only a short time thereafter that the bandit was on the ground, bleeding from a fatal wound to the chest. 

Breathing heavily, d’Artagnan tensed, expecting to be attacked by yet another man. However, no further attack came. He looked around, attempting to see if any of his comrades needed his assistance, but Aramis was straightening up after just having thrown his main gauche at the second of Porthos’ attackers. 

Aramis’s opponent was down, and with the help he’d received, Porthos was able to aggressively go after the last man. For the first time since the skirmish had begun, his friend let the distance between him and Athos grow. Their final opponent was dead barely a minute later; the poor bastard had never had a chance. 

Outnumbered, and with Athos injured, none of them had bothered with anything less than fatal wounds. Five men were dead, and they would never know why. It all seemed so pointless. 

At first glance, one would consider the Musketeers victorious, but with Athos so grievously injured, d’Artagnan felt the victory to be an empty one. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_

**Next time** : Chapter Two: Lost 

**ooooooo**

 

 **Story/History Notes:**

**_La Royale:_** The nickname of the French Navy (marine nationale). Marine nationale traces its roots back to 1624, and is one of the world’s oldest naval forces. France had an informal navy starting in the early 13th century. However, due to Cardinal Richelieu’s efforts, it became institutionalized during the 17th century. It is headquartered out of Brest, a port city in Brittany (Bretagne). 

**_Pensions_** : I made this up for the purposes of my story. I tried doing a bit of research into this, but was unable to find any information about pensions or death benefits for those who served in the armed forces, especially _La Royale_ , back in the 1600s. 


	3. Chapter Two: Lost

.

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Two: Lost**

D’Artagnan and Aramis had already started towards Athos, when Porthos took one step towards them and sunk down to one knee. 

Both of them shouted Porthos’s name in alarm, and he assumed Aramis was feeling as torn as he was over which of their friends most needed help first. Porthos must have seen the distress and indecision on their faces, prompting him to gesture for them to go to Athos first. 

As much as he wanted to go to Athos and see if the older man was alive, d’Artagnan knew he wouldn’t be much help with a head injury. Besides, he couldn’t ignore Porthos’s injuries when he might be able to do something about them. If he were honest with himself, he was afraid to see how badly wounded his mentor might be, and couldn’t face the idea that Athos might already be gone. He didn’t want to consider what life would be like without his best friend and almost couldn’t grasp the notion in the first place. 

Cursing himself in his head for being a coward, d’Artagnan detoured towards Porthos, just barely keeping his friend from toppling over onto to the ground. Immediately, he discovered two wounds – a shallow-looking one to the man’s left forearm and a deeper one on the right upper thigh.  

Pulling the bandana off of Porthos’s head, he used it to tie off the leg wound, which seemed to be bleeding pretty heavily.  The other cut appeared to be shallow and had already mostly stopped bleeding. Aramis asked questions and called out instructions even as he examined Athos, who d’Artagnan belatedly realized must still be alive given the other man’s determined expression. The relief that came with that realization did nothing to assuage his anxiety over Athos’s condition. 

As he continued to help Porthos, d’Artagnan took it as a good sign that Aramis had not stopped treating Athos, even though it seemed the man had yet to regain consciousness. It gave him hope the older man would recover at some point.  Aramis had his back to him and Porthos, blocking their view of Athos, so it was impossible to tell exactly how their friend was truly faring. 

“Aramis?” Porthos said, seemingly asking a myriad of questions with just the one word. 

“He’s alive,” Aramis replied, making the sign of the cross and sounding extremely tense and worried. Their friend pivoted towards them slightly. “It’s a miracle that he is alive. The bullet skimmed the right side of his forehead and it took a good deal of skin with it. Plus, there is a knot on the back of his head, likely from it hitting the ground”—Aramis’s gaze briefly went to Porthos’s arm and then leg—“Porthos?” 

“I’m good for now.” 

“In that case, d’Artagnan, I need your help.” 

Uncertain if he could handle seeing Athos so seriously injured, d’Artagnan hesitated for a moment. He had yet to see any of his friends hurt in so grievous a manner, though Porthos’s shoulder wound due to the mission with Bonnaire had come close. D’Artagnan did not want to even consider the possibility he might lose someone he had become close to since he’d lost his father, which had left him with no remaining close family. 

Without Athos, Aramis, and Porthos, he would be utterly lost, especially now that his farm was no more and Constance had chosen another path. The three men had been there for him as he’d grieved for his losses. They had stood by him, befriended him, and helped him succeed in winning his commission. He shuddered to think where he would be today if not for their mentorship and friendship. 

Now that he had his commission, they were not only his friends, but officially his brothers-in-arms. For a while now, he’d begun thinking of them as his family, though he had yet to confess that fact to any of his three friends. 

However, for some reason he didn’t understand, the one he had become closest to and felt as if the man were a brother, was Athos. 

When he’d encountered Athos, who at the time he’d thought had killed his father, d’Artagnan had believed the older man was an arrogant bastard, despite the mercy shown him during their fight. Athos could not have failed to notice from his fighting technique that he was injured, yet the master swordsman had taken care to not kill him. To this day, he was extremely grateful of the man’s forbearance. 

Without it, he would not have had the chance to become more than the mediocre farmer he believed he had been destined to become. That mercy had also ended up saving Athos’s own life as well. By not killing him, d’Artagnan was around to be able to provide the clue that eventually led to Athos’s freedom from execution. 

Helping Aramis and Porthos clear Athos’s name allowed him to pay penance for his actions in condemning an innocent man based a solely on a name. He had thought his father was naming the one who shot him, which in a way was the case, but it had also been a clue that someone was targeting Athos and the Musketeer regiment. When his father died in his arms, he had never even considered the idea that Athos was being framed. 

Once he had decided to stay in Paris, he had to work hard to earn Athos’s trust beyond the good will he’d earned for his part in proving the man’s innocence. When the mission with Vadim had come along, he saw it as his chance to finally earn that trust. 

For some unknown reason, d’Artagnan wanted – _needed_ – that trust from Athos. In the beginning, the older man was often aloof with him, refusing to spar when asked, and mostly politely ignoring his existence unless he was involved with Musketeer business. To this day, he still didn’t understand why Athos’s good opinion meant so much to him. 

After the nearly-failed mission with Vadim, Athos had been inexplicably more cordial towards him, finally consenting to sparring with him. Crossing swords with Athos the second time was just as thrilling, just as challenging as the first time. Athos quickly let him see there would be no taking it easy on him due to damaged ribs. 

D’Artagnan had been defeated sooner than he would’ve liked, but then Athos had surprised him. The older man had offered up constructive criticism of his movements and what he could have done better. Given the expressions on Aramis’s, as well as some other Musketeers’ faces, such interest in a new recruit must have practically been unheard of. 

Since that first, long day of their acquaintance, Porthos and Aramis had always been friendly with him, but to have even the slightest hint of Athos’s approval reminded him of how he felt when his father was pleased with him. Despite their short acquaintances, it was the first time he’d thought of any of the three men as the best friends— 

“D’Artagnan?” 

Aramis’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts and he rushed over to Athos’s side. From the expression on Aramis’s face, he got the impression that it wasn’t the first time either of his conscious friends had called his name. 

D’Artagnan’s stomach flip-flopped at the sight of all the blood all over Athos’s face. A memory of a head wound his father had received when he was sixteen flashed through his mind. It was on that occasion he’d learned head wounds tended to bleed _a lot_. Yet, to see that much blood covering Athos unnerved him. He hadn’t thought that possible for a person he’d met less than a year ago. 

His father’s blood on his hands had meant death – the death of the last of his closest family, the death of his life as he had known it. He was a little afraid that getting Athos’s blood on his hands would also lead to death, and he didn’t think he could handle losing anyone or anything else right now. Recently, he’d lost so much, including Constance and his farm, along with the majority of his belongings, and had to rely solely on his wages as a soldier to support himself. 

D’Artagnan knew Aramis and Porthos would not forsake him if Athos were to die, but they would be just as heartbroken as him. He had seen families fall apart after a much-beloved member passed away. Would their friendships survive without Athos as their linchpin? 

His commission was the only thing he had of worth besides his brothers. Yet without them, his commission would lose its value and its meaning. He would be protecting the King, but he’d be doing it without the wealth that only friendship could bring. 

“D’Artagnan?” 

“What—?” He shook his head to try to dislodge his morose thoughts. “Yes, sorry.” 

“You with me d’Artagnan?” Aramis asked. “Because I need you here in the present.” 

“I’m here.”—He straightened his posture and made sure to keep eye contact—“I promise.” 

Aramis scrutinized him for a brief moment before nodding. “Alright. The horses, d’Artagnan. I need my bag.” 

“On it,” he said as he stood and went in the direction he’d last seen the horses go. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Three: Triage 

**ooooooo**


	4. Chapter Three: Triage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Three: Triage**

Having not responded to his repeated whistles, d’Artagnan presumed the horses had wandered farther than he originally thought. As he ran in the direction he thought he had seen them go, he began to feel he had Porthos and Athos’s lives in his hands. He believed he was taking far too long and was afraid that his friends’ lives were slipping away with every second that went by. 

He whistled for the horses again, and heard one of them whinny in return. Whistling again, he thought he heard horse’s hooves coming closer. Stepping around a dense bunch of bushes, d’Artagnan saw his friends’ horses making their way towards him, but did not see his own amongst them. Nevertheless, he didn’t waste any more time searching and grabbed the reins of all three horses before mounting Aramis’s. As he rode back towards his brothers, he whistled for his horse a couple more times, hoping it would have the good sense to return on its own. 

In his mind, it seemed as if it was taking hours to accomplish his task, when in reality it might only have been minutes. Either way, Athos and Porthos were waiting for him to bring the medical supplies Aramis normally carried on extended missions. 

The horses had barely come to a halt before d’Artagnan jumped down and quickly grabbed the saddlebag of much-needed supplies. Handing the satchel to Aramis, d’Artagnan tried to distract himself from all the blood still evident on the side of Athos’s face by checking on Porthos. The bandana he had used to staunch the blood flowing from the leg wound was soaked but not overly so. Still, he worried that the man was losing too much blood and knew he needed to get another bandage. D’Artagnan looked up only to see Aramis, with a small smile on his face, tossing him a roll of bandage. 

However, the small smile belied the extreme worry clearly evident in the man’s eyes. D’Artagnan’s stomach turned at the thought of what Aramis wasn’t saying as he tended to Athos. He tore his gaze away and looked Porthos in the eye, trying to assess the man’s condition. Face sweaty and looking a little pale, one side of Porthos’s mouth curled up a little. 

“I’m fine and fit,” Porthos said. Then, the lines of pain around his eyes softened a little. Tilting his head towards Aramis and Athos, the older man added, “And he will be too.” 

D’Artagnan wanted to nod his agreement, but couldn’t, instead letting his gaze fall away and back to Porthos’s right leg as he continued to wrap a new bandage around his friend’s thigh. 

He badly wanted to believe in Porthos’s words, but right at that moment with Athos so still on the ground, he simply couldn’t. 

Knowing that Aramis preferred to not treat his patient’s wounds out in the open unless absolutely necessary, he quickly finished wrapping the new bandage over the improvised one. They would want to depart as soon as possible in order to get Porthos stitched up and the bleeding stopped. God only knew what sort of treatment Athos needed. 

When he finished, Porthos patted his shoulder in thanks. D’Artagnan reached out and gripped the other man’s shoulder briefly in return before making his way back to Aramis. 

“Is he ready to travel?” Aramis asked, referring to Porthos. 

D’Artagnan nodded, but seeing how distracted the other man was, he added, “Yes.” 

He swiped a hand over his mouth and grimaced when his fingers came in contact with a sore spot. Looking down at his fingers, he saw a little bit of blood. He hadn’t even realized he had been hit hard enough to sustain the injury. Disregarding the blood, he wiped his hand off on his pants. 

“And Athos?” 

Aramis started to say something, but his expression changed as if he changed his mind. “I need to get him somewhere where I can properly work on him. The sooner, the better.” 

“I’ll bring the horses closer.” 

ooooooo 

If it had been any other situation, getting the two injured men on horses would’ve been considered a comedy of errors. However, this was life and death, and d’Artagnan felt the stress of the situation getting to him again. 

When helping Aramis get Athos on his horse, d’Artagnan discovered that his friend had also sustained an injury – minor though it was, relatively speaking. Aramis assured him that his sore shoulder was only a sprain of some of the muscles and not something more serious. Until, or unless proven otherwise, d’Artagnan would have to take the other man at his word. He almost insisted Athos ride with him, but didn’t think he could survive it if another person he cared about died in his arms. 

While Athos was to ride with Aramis, Porthos insisted he was able to handle a horse by himself. With some help, the older man was able to mount his horse, grunting in pain as he settled in the saddle. 

Thankfully, in the time it had taken to temporarily treat both men, his horse had wandered back of its own accord, likely drawn by the noise from the others. He mounted his own horse, gathered the reins of Athos’s horse, and they started heading east towards Paris. They would need to stop as soon as the opportunity arose; hopefully, they would quickly come across an inn. 

D’Artagnan found himself plagued by the urge to ride faster and faster in order to get Athos and Porthos the help they needed that much quicker, but he knew that wasn’t possible, given the types of wounds they were dealing with. 

Several hours later, though to him it felt like several days, they rode into Nogent-le-Rotrou* and headed towards the Roue Brisée*, an inn they had stayed at on their way to Brest. D’Artagnan jumped down and rushed to help Porthos dismount from his horse. Once the larger man was somewhat steady on his feet, he went over to Aramis, but the man waved him off. 

“No. We’re fine for the moment. Help Porthos inside and get us some rooms.” 

Letting Porthos wrap an arm around his shoulders, d’Artagnan helped his friend limp into the inn. The owner, Monsieur Lavoie, recognized them immediately, and sent his son out to help with the horses. The innkeeper offered to help Porthos up to one of the two rooms that they’d used last time. D’Artagnan hesitated to allow the stocky man to help, but Porthos forced the issue by moving away from him and gesturing towards the entrance. He loathed having to choose between his friends, but Porthos practically growled at him when he didn’t move off right away. 

The other three horses had already been led away, and Aramis had maneuvered his horse as close as possible to the door of the inn. 

As soon as d’Artagnan came up beside his friends, Aramis said, “Careful. Try to keep his head from moving around too much.” 

D’Artagnan nodded his understanding and was almost afraid to touch Athos after hearing those words, not wanting to accidentally cause further damage. Athos was slowly and gently passed down to him, Aramis grunting in pain as the man helped to control the descent. He waited for Aramis to dismount and come around before they carefully entered the inn. Monsieur Lavoie informed them of what room he’d put Porthos in, and mentioned that his wife was heating some water for their use. 

When they entered the designated room, Porthos was sitting on the bed farthest from the door and the bedding was already pushed back to the foot of each bed. The two of them lowered Athos down onto the other bed and divested him of his boots, pants and doublet before laying him down. 

“D’Artagnan, can you go get some of that water the innkeeper mentioned? I need some of it now.” 

Though he did not really want to leave, he nodded and did so anyway, keenly aware that any hesitation on his part only delayed treatment for his friends. 

He had barely stepped out into the hallway when he heard Porthos speak. “Aramis?” 

“I don’t know, Porthos.”—Aramis paused—“I don’t know.” 

Since the day that his father was murdered, d’Artagnan didn’t think he would ever again be so frightened of losing someone. Apparently, he was wrong. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Four: Treatment 

**ooooooo**

 

 **Story/History Notes :**

**_Nogent-le-Rotrou_** – In choosing locations for this story, I wanted to pick places that existed back in the 1630s.  It’s difficult to find a decent map from that time, but I own a reprint of _Atlas Maior (1665_ ), produced by Taschen (publishing company), which became my primary source of the location names used throughout this story. The atlas was originally published in 1662 by Amsterdam publisher, Joan Blaeu, one of Holland’s leading cartographers. 

Originally appearing in Latin, _Atlas Maior_ depicted the whole of the world as it was known in the 17th century. Names of regions, seas, and major rivers were given in Latin, while most other names were given in the local language. Due to the variety of sources for the maps included in the atlas, there was no uniformity of spelling of place-names. For example, for this story, I used a map of the whole of France which appears on pages 208 and 209 of my reprint. In this chapter, I decided to use the current spelling – Nogent-le-Rotrou. However, the name has a slightly different spelling in my atlas – Nogen le rotrou. 

I chose Nogent-le-Rotrou because it was approximately the right distance from Paris for the needs of the story. It is located in the Centre-Val de Loire region (Eure-et-Loir department) of northern France. Future chapters will showcase other locations chosen from the map I used, which actually still exist in some form to this day. 

**_Roue Brisée_** = Translation is “Broken Wheel.” I’m still refreshing my knowledge of French, but I believe that the connotation of using _brisée_ meant the breaking was involuntary or an accident. 

**ooooooo**


	5. Chapter Four: Treatment

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Four: Treatment**

When d’Artagnan returned with a bucket of warm water and some spare cloths, Porthos was already stripped of his boots and doublet, the bandage on his leg nearly saturated with blood. 

Aramis turned to look towards him as he entered and stood up from his seat beside Athos’s bed. 

“Over here, please,” Aramis said as he stepped over to the other bed. “I need to stitch Porthos’s leg first; he’s losing too much blood for me to wait any longer.” 

“What about Athos?” he asked, suddenly feeling ashamed he was thinking more about one friend’s well-being over another’s. 

He loved Porthos, and considered the man family, but somehow the thought of Athos hurt and possibly dying was enough to twist his stomach into knots and for his throat to tighten so much it was difficult for him to swallow. D’Artagnan thought of his father as he set the bucket where Aramis indicated, praying that God would not take his friend from him so soon. 

He was not ready to lose yet another person from his life. Too many people had already been lost: his mother; his younger sister, who had died before she could really live; a good friend from his childhood; close family…his father. They were all gone; his brother Musketeers were all that he had left in the world*. 

“While I’m making sure Porthos’s leg doesn’t fall off—” 

“Oi!” Porthos said with an expression on his face that seemed to promise future retribution. 

Aramis ignored Porthos’s interjection. “—or becomes lame, you are going to clean up Athos’s face so I can stitch him up when I’m done.” 

“Me? But I—“ 

Aramis placed the hand of his uninjured arm on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “You can do this. I’ve seen you watching me every time I help someone – even when it’s yourself. Have you not noticed that I’ve been explaining things more along the way?” 

His friend’s words stopped a half-formed protest from coming out of his mouth. Everything the other man had just said was true. He _had_ been watching. 

Seeing what Aramis could do as a healer had made him wonder if he could’ve saved his father if he’d had some of the same knowledge. As a result, he had begun to pay attention, trying to glean some understanding of Aramis’s methods. 

Now that he’d had his attention called to it, Aramis had been explaining his methods more. Two weeks after the events surrounding the revelations about Savoy, one of the other Musketeers, Moreau, had been accidentally injured in a training incident. D’Artagnan had witnessed the incident and had helped Aramis get the man to the garrison’s infirmary. 

Unfortunately, the gentleman who served as the garrison’s doctor was unavailable to help Moreau due to the grave condition of another patient in another part of the city. Rather than seeking out another physician, Aramis volunteered to care for the man, and d’Artagnan had aided his friend with stitching up Moreau’s arm. Granted, the help was nothing more than making sure Aramis had what he needed to treat the wound, but his actions and questions had obviously not gone unnoticed.  D’Artagnan didn’t necessarily want to be a healer like Aramis, but he definitely wanted to know enough so that a delay in treatment wouldn’t cost the life of yet another person he cared about. 

That last thought had him putting all of his apprehension of doing something wrong and somehow making his friend worse behind him. 

He grabbed the bucket of warm water and dumped some of it into a washbasin, a small amount splashing out onto the chair he was using for a table. Grabbing a soft, worn cloth, he dunked it in the water and wrung it out, seeing out of the corner of his eye Aramis nodding to himself and stepping over to help Porthos. 

As gently as he could, d’Artagnan scrubbed the dried blood from Athos’s face and the side of his head. He was careful to avoid the actual injury, preferring Aramis take care of it. From what he could see, the bullet had made a finger-length furrow, starting at the forehead and along the right side of Athos’s head. To his untrained and inexperienced eye, the bullet hadn’t penetrated the skull, but he would have to wait for Aramis’s diagnosis to know for sure. 

Throughout all his ministrations, d’Artagnan had not seen Athos flinch in pain or make any signs of returning to consciousness. This only made his level of worry skyrocket to new heights. He had heard of people who, having taken a hard blow to the head, would remain asleep for days or weeks and others who never woke up again, eventually slipping away into death. 

D’Artagnan couldn’t stand the thought of never again seeing the stoic man awake, of never again sparring with or just simply talking to Athos. He couldn’t bear watching the friend he’d come to love as a brother waste away to nothing as the man slept. What would he do without his older brother? 

Finally finished, the Gascon put the cloth down in the basin of water, already turned pink with Athos’s blood despite it being the third time he’d changed the water. After a moment, he wrung the cloth out and proceeded to clean the dried blood off of his own chin, grimacing at the feel of the cloth on his split lip. Feeling a trickle of blood run down his chin, he pressed the cloth down on his lip to staunch the bleeding, berating himself for being so careless. 

A terrifying thought entered his mind like a bold of lightening. What if he had hurt Athos when he’d been cleaning the blood off the man’s face? He prayed he didn’t. 

He dropped the cloth he’d been holding back into the washbasin and studied Athos’s face; if it weren’t for the wound at the temple, anyone would simply mistake the older man for being asleep instead of unconscious. A sudden urge to shake Athos awake came upon him, but he knew it wouldn’t do either of them any good. Athos was well and truly unconscious, shaking the man would undoubtedly cause more damage, and he would be disappointed when there was no change. 

D’Artagnan startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing for a moment before letting go. As his heart calmed, he braved gazing into Aramis’s concerned-looking eyes. He could see Aramis wanted to talk to him about his recent behavior, but he was in no mood to discuss it at the moment. He did not deserve any attention while Athos and Porthos were hurt so much worse than he’d ever previously witnessed. 

“D’Artagnan, are you—?” 

“How is Porthos?” d’Artagnan asked, cutting his friend off. 

Aramis’s expression shifted and he frowned before answering. “I need your help. My arm… I just barely got Porthos’s wounds stitched closed, and am having trouble putting the bandages on.” 

He gestured towards his friend’s injured arm. “Do you think it’s dislocated?” 

“No. The muscles are just strained and can’t bear much weight.” 

D’Artagnan couldn’t help but throw him a look of disbelief. Aramis sighed. “On my honor.”—He raised his hands in surrender—“Would I be asking for help if what I said wasn’t true?” 

“What about Athos?” 

Aramis leaned over to check their friend’s bullet wound. “There’s not much more I can do… Finish cleaning the wound. Maybe a couple of stitches.” 

“Nothing you can do,” d’Artagnan quietly repeated, suddenly feeling lightheaded. His throat tightened as he continued to speak. “You…you think he’s going to die.” 

Aramis grabbed his shoulders. “No! Don’t you dare think that. Don’t _ever_ think that. He _will_ wake up. You have to have faith. You have to _believe_ it.” 

D’Artagnan couldn’t bring himself to speak, so he nodded, and Aramis patted his shoulders. 

“Help me with Porthos. Athos should be fine for a few moments.” 

Aramis pulled him to his feet and began leading him over to Porthos’s bed. While he wanted to believe Athos would wake and be himself, d’Artagnan wasn’t sure Aramis believed his own words. 

ooooooo 

Porthos was lying on the bed mostly out of it from pain and blood loss. Aramis started to reach around d’Artagnan for his supplies before suddenly recoiling and gasping briefly in pain. Concerned, d’Artagnan started to react but Aramis held up a hand to stop him. It was obvious that either Aramis had far misrepresented his injury or had momentarily forgotten its limitations.  

“Apparently, I shouldn’t be reaching for things either,” Aramis said with a cheeky grin on his face. 

“Apparently,” d’Artagnan said before rolling his eyes. “What do you need me to do?” 

Aramis gestured towards the small pile of rolled bandages.  “If you would hold up his leg so I could bandage it. The same with his arm, if you please. I barely got Porthos’s stitches done before my muscles seized up.” 

Once they finished with Porthos’s leg, and had started bandaging the injured arm, Aramis spoke again. 

“I think you’re going to have to help me stitch Athos’s wound.” 

“What? No. I can’t! I’ve never…” 

“Yes, d’Artagnan, you can. I can talk you through it. This will be much easier than you think.” 

“But Aramis—” 

His friend broadly gestured to include the four of them. “Your family still needs you. _Athos_ needs you...” 

D’Artagnan was of two minds about what Aramis had just said to him. He was torn between sighing in frustration for the way Aramis was manipulating him and shouting for joy over the fact that his friend had called their team a family – including _him_ in that description. 

He had considered it wishful thinking or sentimentality on his part, but to hear one of his friends actually say _that_ – out loud – was monumental to him. The family he had been born to had basically gone from a family tree to a family twig in far too short a time. He had been alone, a family of one since his father had been murdered. 

His three _brothers_ had found their way into his heart; they had become his family at a time when he had so badly needed one. Despite the current situation, he didn’t think Aramis was lying when he called them family. As a result, he felt warm all over from the good feeling that at least one of his friends thought the same way as he did. 

When he tuned back into what Aramis was saying, he raised his hands in surrender. 

“Aramis! Alright, I get it…” 

“You think you can do this now?” 

“Not really,” d’Artagnan said honestly, “but I’m going to anyway.” 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Five: Caretaking 

**ooooooo**

**Story/History Notes :**

**_“…all that he had left in the world”_ :** I forgot to mention this as a note for Chapter Two: I’ve been working on this story on an off for a while now. At the time that I wrote this section, it seemed like d’Artagnan had no other family.  Episode 3.08, _Prisoners of War_ , introduced a cousin by the name of Espoir, which I’ve chosen to ignore for this story. 

**ooooooo**

.


	6. Chapter Five: Caretaking

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Five: Caretaking**

As promised, Aramis talked him through the procedure, giving him step-by-step instructions and subtle corrections as needed. He was more than nervous and felt as if he were shaking, but somehow his hands remained steady while he placed the few stitches that were needed at the deepest part of the wound. 

Only once did Athos react to his actions; his friend’s forehead creased slightly when he placed a stitch deeper than he should have. He tried not to think what an overall lack of reaction might mean for Athos’s recovery. 

When he finished, d’Artagnan felt vaguely sick at the notion he had just repeatedly sunk a needle into a friend’s flesh. He got up from his chair, mumbling something about needing a break, and went over to the window. He opened the small window, and took a few slow, deep breaths of the cooler air, hoping it would help with the queasiness he was feeling. 

He heard someone moving around behind him, and assumed Aramis was checking on Porthos before they finished treating Athos. 

“Porthos is a little warm,” Aramis said, causing d’Artagnan to turn from the window. “We will have to keep an eye out. Keep him cool and hope to knock out that slight fever before it can truly take hold.” 

D’Artagnan nodded and stepped away from the window after closing it. He went back to Athos’s side and waited for Aramis to join him so that they could bandage his friend’s wound. 

“I’ll make a draught for the fever after we finish tending to Athos.” 

When the queasy feeling started to return, he distracted himself from what he was doing by saying, “And perhaps you could make a pain draught for yourself when we’re done here. I don’t – _they don’t_ – want you to neglect your own pain.” 

“I won’t,” Aramis said, placing a hand on his heart. “Believe me when I say that I will welcome some relief.” 

“Is there any salve that can help?” he asked, worried once more that Aramis was down-playing his injury. “Are you sure you don’t want me to check to see what’s going on?” 

“No need. I’ve had this happen to me before. A balm is a good idea. I think I have one for muscle pain and strain in my bag.” 

D’Artagnan nodded and finished tying off the bandage around Athos’s head. He got up to retrieve Aramis’s satchel from the foot of Porthos’s bed then placed it on the small table situated between the two beds. Aramis rummaged through his satchel with his good hand until he exclaimed in triumph, holding up a small, glass jar. 

He took it from Aramis and opened it up to smell the contents, pleasantly surprised to find it didn’t smell bad. Helping Aramis take off his doublet and shirt proved to be difficult with the limited range of motion the man was currently experiencing. In the end, the doublet came off but the shirt stayed on and was adjusted so that the damaged shoulder was visible. 

D’Artagnan scooped out some of the balm from the jar and found it to be almost cold to the touch. He rubbed his hands together to warm them and the balm, and at Aramis’s direction, he gently massaged the ointment into the shoulder. His friend winced several times, but on the whole, it seemed that he was helping rather than hurting Aramis. Perhaps he wasn’t cut out to be a healer, but at least he was learning enough to help keep someone alive should the need arise. 

Compared to how he felt stitching Athos’s head, helping Porthos and Aramis with the treatment of their injuries was easy. Granted, Athos’s injury was much graver than either Aramis’s or Porthos’s, but shouldn’t he be equally concerned about all three men? 

As he was wiping the balm off his hands with a small towel, he felt a hand on his back. 

“You are doing very well for your first time doing this, d’Artagnan. Why don’t you procure us something to eat and get some more water? I need to prepare those pain draughts for when Porthos and Athos wake.” 

“But—” 

Aramis gestured towards his arm. “I can’t carry a tray or a bucket of water right now. You can.” The hand moved up his back and gently squeezed his neck once before letting go. “And I think the short break will do you good.” 

D’Artagnan really did not want to leave Athos – or any of his friends – but he also saw wisdom in what Aramis had said. His stomach certainly agreed with Aramis, making a low gurgling sound as he stood up. He didn’t really feel like eating but obviously his body felt differently. 

Yet, looking towards Porthos and then Athos, he still hesitated to leave. 

“Go,” Aramis said, rising from the chair beside Athos’s bed. 

He turned towards the door but stopped before he had taken half a step. D’Artagnan felt a small push from behind, which forced him to move in the direction of the door if he wanted to keep his footing. Looking back at Aramis, the man smiled innocently at him. 

“Go,” his friend said. 

Opening the door, he started to step out into the hall when he heard Aramis add, “And I’ll check your wounds when you return.” 

D’Artagnan turned back and briefly stuck his head back in the room. “Only if you make a dose of that pain medicine and drink it.” 

He left before Aramis could reply. 

ooooooo 

As d’Artagnan had suspected, his worst injuries were his split lip and some bruised ribs; everything else was minor and hardly worth mentioning, though Aramis got him to confess to the littlest things anyway. 

In return for his honesty, Aramis did indeed take a pain draught, agreeing to get some rest for a few hours with the promise that he would be awakened should he be needed. One point of contention was that Aramis refused to leave the room; d’Artagnan definitely understood the sentiment behind the refusal. 

They managed a compromise of sorts by convincing Monsieur Lavoie to provide them with enough bedding to make sleeping on the floor not quite so dismal a prospect, even though the lack of a proper bed probably wouldn’t do the man’s injured shoulder any good. 

While Aramis was sleeping, d’Artagnan was tasked with tending to his friends. Through the grace of God, Porthos’s fever never rose to dangerous levels and seemed to be on the verge of breaking. He suspected that, by the time the sun was up, Porthos’s fever would be a thing of the past. 

Athos, on the other hand, continued to remain unresponsive. D’Artagnan felt sicker with every passing hour at the thought that the older man may never wake up. His belief in his friend’s ability to overcome this head injury was wavering more and more as time wore on. 

The only saving grace to Athos’s condition was that the man had yet to develop a fever; by this point, he might escape one entirely. Athos was warmer than usual, but he never got any worse. D’Artagnan guessed that the extra warmth was being caused by his friend’s body reacting to the stress of being injured. 

Just before he was about to wake Aramis, who had threatened his manhood if he didn’t, Porthos began to stir. 

D’Artagnan was just placing a cool cloth on Athos’s forehead when he heard sounds coming from Porthos’s direction.  He stood up so fast that he almost tipped over the chair. Detouring over to Aramis, he nudged the man’s feet with this boot, instantly waking his friend. 

He pointed towards Porthos, who let out a timely moan, causing Aramis to quickly and awkwardly scramble to his feet and follow him to the bed. Porthos groaned and opened his eyes to Aramis’s encouraging comments. D’Artagnan moved out of the way in order to allow the marksman room to examine their injured friend. 

Aramis checked Porthos’s wounds, taking the time to show him what a wound that was no longer festering should look like. Afterwards, they helped the larger man drink some broth and updated him on their situation. By the time Aramis had finished speaking, it was morning and they briefly smiled at the fact that Porthos’s fever had abated as predicted. 

From the expression on Aramis’s face, Porthos was going to be fine, which only left Athos’s condition still in question. 

They waited until Porthos fell asleep once more to discuss how Athos had been the past several hours. D’Artagnan described every detail, and from the way Aramis’s eyes shifted away at one point, the news was not good. However, while Aramis avoided saying anything negative, he did tell him that it was not really the time just yet to worry. 

It seemed as if Aramis no longer believed his own words about Athos’s chances of survival. If a healer didn’t think a patient would live, then how could he? Still, as long as Athos drew breath, he had to try. If it wasn’t for Porthos’s recovery, he would have lost all hope by now. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Six: First Words 

**ooooooo**


	7. Chapter Six: First Words

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Six: First Words**

A day and a half later, Porthos and Aramis were getting better by the hour while the opposite seemed true for Athos. If they didn’t know any different, anyone would mistake Athos’s persistent unconscious state for sleep, but to d’Artagnan’s eyes, it looked as if they were going to lose a friend and brother at any moment. 

Aramis’s shoulder was moving freely once more, with the muscles not quite as painful as they had been. Porthos was gaining strength and managing to leave his bed for short periods of time, even sitting with Athos when Aramis allowed it. On the other hand, Athos was quite pale, which made the colorful bruise surrounding the head wound stick out in stark contrast. 

Both he and Aramis had been taking turns with staying by their friends’ sides. Every few hours, one of them would make sure to carefully trickle water or broth into Athos’s mouth to keep him from becoming dehydrated. 

D’Artagnan yawned and rubbed his eyes, feeling his ever-present exhaustion gain a stronger foothold within him. He had tried sleeping during each of his breaks, but had yet to manage more than a half hour here and there, afraid Athos would pass while he was asleep. 

The Gascon could hardly remember the last time he’d had a decent night’s sleep. Even before this disastrous mission, he’d been dealing with a bout of insomnia, something he’d occasionally been plagued with since he was about 10 or 11 years old. 

Every once in a while, he would just stop being able to sleep. Sometimes he mind refused to quiet down completely, but for the most part, he had no idea of the cause. No one as yet had been able to explain it to him, but he had learned to live with it and had not discussed it with anyone but his father in years. 

Back when he’d first become recruit, he’d tried to hide his malady from his new friends, but his efforts had ended up being in vain. During one of his first few missions, the three Musketeers had confronted him about his sleeping habits. Skillfully, and all too quickly, the men had got him to admit his secret. 

Since then, he’d noticed subtle changes that had somehow made it easier for him to get at least a little bit of sleep while suffering from insomnia. He’d noticed they would get him to spar until he was left exhausted in body, indulged his restless walking about the camp, let him take more than his fair share of the watch, and even stayed up with him on occasion. 

Of the three men, Athos was the most understanding of the group, even though Aramis also sometimes had issues with sleeping due to nightmares. The man’s regrets often took a toll on Athos. Wine was his friend’s primary means of escape, especially when sleep as an escape only worked until the nightmares took hold. Sometimes it was just easier to go without. 

For him, it was that he simply lost the ability to sleep, especially when he had a lot on his mind. Having a friend wounded and another that could die was more than enough to keep him awake until exhaustion felled him. 

It was early evening and Aramis and Porthos were downstairs getting something to eat. It had taken a lot of convincing to get the two men to take a break. 

He’d thrown every logical and practical argument he could think of at them to get them to leave for a little while, including reminding them that they would be close by if either of them were needed. They weren’t abandoning Athos; they were simply taking time to get a proper sit-down meal, and making sure Porthos’s wounded leg got some gentle exercise as the two men walked down to the common room. 

In the end, he’d had to threaten them with a detailed account of how to plant and sow crops in Gascony’s particular climate in order to get them to leave the room and stay gone for at least an hour. With that, he finally convinced them that he could handle watching over Athos by himself. 

More than half way through that hour, he was re-reading a book on military strategy that Athos had loaned him when he heard a sound. He looked up from the book and towards the older man, but could detect no change, either for good or ill. His friend looked the same as he did since he and Aramis had finished treating the man’s wounds – more than 40 hours ago. 

Having convinced himself that he’d imagined the noise, d’Artagnan returned to the page he had been reading. The book’s author had a very dry style, but several pages back he had recognized a strategy Athos had recently employed and wondered if the book in his hands was the inspiration. 

He was about to turn to the next page when he heard another noise. This time he was certain that it had come from Athos, having also caught some slight movement out of the corner of his eye. It was how his friend normally sounded when just waking. 

Athos stirred and made another sound, leaving d’Artagnan wondering if Athos would completely regain consciousness or if it was just another false alarm. There had been a few other times when they were certain Athos was waking only to be disappointed. 

Impatient and dearly needing to see the older man awake, d’Artagnan was just about to say something, when his friend opened his eyes. 

At first, neither of them said anything; d’Artagnan anxiously watched as Athos blinked a few times before closing his eyes again. Seconds later, his friend’s eyes re-opened but the lids were up only about half as far before shutting once more. Just when he thought Athos was going to go back to sleep, the man opened his eyes and looked right at him. 

He smiled broadly. Though he noted the man’s confused expression, his joy at seeing Athos semi-coherent overrode all thought. He began to babble, words flowing from his mouth at a rapid pace, feeling his anxiety drain away as happiness filled him. He had begun to despair that Athos would never wake up. 

“Thank God you’re awake!”—He laughed—“Of course you wake now. I finally convince the others to take a break and get something to eat downstairs and you wake up.”—Crossing his arms in front of him, he leaned back in his chair—“Figures.” 

Athos continued to say nothing, looking at him with confusion written all over his face. D’Artagnan was starting to become convinced he should get Aramis, but decided to offer something to drink instead, thinking it would help Athos get his speech going again. 

He poured water from a pitcher into a cup and lifted it in a gesture of askance. At first, Athos didn’t say or do anything except raise an eyebrow at him, which accompanied an expression that almost had him believing his friend didn’t trust him. After another moment, Athos nodded and d’Artagnan helped him take a couple of tentative sips. 

“Better?” d’Artagnan asked as he set the cup back down on the bedside table. 

Athos nodded slightly before suddenly turning a decidedly _not_ normal skin tone. D’Artagnan grabbed an almost-empty wash basin just in time for Athos to get sick in it. There wasn’t much besides bile to bring up, due to the fact that they had been giving him only broth and water a little at a time to keep him nourished and hydrated while unconscious. 

The arm Athos was using to hold himself up began to shake and it looked as if the man was going to pitch forward. D’Artagnan, worried that Athos would fall off the bed, shifted the basin to one hand and put the other on his friend’s shoulder. To his surprise, Athos flinched and shrank back from the contact. 

“Athos? Are you alright? What’s wrong?” 

The first words to come out of Athos’s mouth in nearly two days end up changing his life – and not for the better. 

“Who are you?” 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Seven: Bad News 

**ooooooo**


	8. Chapter Seven: Bad News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end of the chapter for Story/History Notes.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Seven: Bad News**

At first, d’Artagnan thought Athos was joking, but that idea was discarded almost as quickly as he’d thought of it. Dry wit and quips were Athos’s _modus operandi*_ , not hurtful pranks or ill-timed jokes. 

“Do you really not know who I am?” d’Artagnan asked, praying Athos had suddenly decided that joking was the way to go – for the first time _ever_ – but it was not meant to be. 

“No,” his friend said, drawing the word out. Though he tried to hide it, Athos’s eyes contained more than a trace of worry. “Where are—? Are Porthos and Aramis here?” 

Athos had hardly finished speaking when he grabbed at his head; the man’s pain was obvious and yet d’Artagnan felt completely at a loss about how he could help. 

“Just… Just lay back and rest. I—I’ll go get them.” 

He started towards the door and looked back at Athos, who was watching him. The man’s pain-filled eyes held no recognition in them, yet his distrust was clear. D’Artagnan quietly left the room, both wanting and not wanting to leave his best friend. 

He didn’t understand what was going on.  How could Athos not remember him? 

Porthos and Aramis were sitting together, relaxing on a bench under a large oak tree. Quickly, he explained to Aramis what had just happened, causing the older man to stand abruptly and sprint towards their room. From the look on his face as Aramis left, d’Artagnan knew he had been entrusted to accompany Porthos safely back inside. 

Porthos was mobile up to a point, but had to keep to a slow, careful pace while walking so he wouldn’t pull out the stitches in his thigh. Porthos’s hand was on his shoulder, using him as a crutch as they walked more quickly than Aramis probably would’ve liked. 

“You sure he wasn’t just groggy from bein’ asleep so long?” 

D’Artagnan took a steadying breath. “I’m sure. You should’ve seen his eyes… He didn’t know me at all.” 

Porthos nodded and squeezed his shoulder once before continuing the rest of the way in silence. 

When they reached Athos’s room and opened the door, Aramis came out to them. D’Artagnan caught a glimpse of a sleeping Athos before his friend closed the door. 

Aramis seemed out of sorts and the man’s eyes, full of pity, seemed to slide his direction far too often. His stomach dropped at all of the possible implications – none of which he liked even one bit. 

Porthos cut through the tense silence. “Spit it out, Aramis.” 

Aramis ran a hand through his hair. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but note that the man did not grimace in pain. Knowing the arm’s muscles were healing well provided a bright spot to a day that was rapidly turning into a nightmare. 

“Athos has amnesia.” 

“So he doesn’t remember us?” Porthos asked. 

Aramis’s eyes shifted towards him for a moment before meeting Porthos’s once more. “He remembers you and me, Porthos, but… Remember that mission to Grenoble*?” 

“The one where—?” 

Aramis nodded and Porthos cursed. 

“What? What mission?”—His friends shared a looked which made him nervous—“Tell me.” 

The two men shared another look before Porthos lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. 

Aramis rolled his eyes and said, “It was about five or six months before you came to us.”—The older man shook his head—“The details are unimportant save for this: some bastard threw a grenade and Athos was thrown from his horse. He hit his head hard enough to gain a severe concussion and, when he woke, couldn’t remember nearly that whole day as a result. For some reason, he thinks we’re still on that mission.” 

“So Athos can’t remember anything from that day to the present?” Porthos asked, likely to confirm what was being implied. 

“And he doesn’t remember me,” d’Artagnan said, feeling very sorry for himself. 

Clasping his shoulder and squeezing it, Aramis said, “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan. The good news, if there can be any, is that his wound looks clean…. He just fell asleep when you came in.” 

“Real sleep and not like he’s been for the past couple days?” asked Porthos. 

“Real sleep,” Aramis said as he nodded. “I’m positive. Physically, at least, he’s going to be fine.” 

“And his memory?” d’Artagnan asked, though he dreaded hearing the answer. 

Aramis hesitated for a moment. “I—I don’t know. Athos never did recover that day he lost from before.” 

D’Artagnan’s stomach dropped into his feet, and he suddenly felt like he had to be anywhere but where he was. He heard his name being called, but he ignored his friends, not really paying attention to where he was going. When he finally came back to himself, he was at the edge of the woods behind the inn. He contemplated escaping into the trees, but didn’t want to risk getting lost or be out of touch with the others. He just needed some time alone. 

He sat down on the trunk of a felled tree and listened to the breeze blowing through the trees. When he was younger and had been upset, he would retreat to the relative peace of the small forest near his home. The wind moving the through the leaves was a sound that never failed to calm him, and it didn’t fail to do so this time either. His heart was now calmer though his mind was still full of the implications of the loss of Athos’s memories. 

What if they were gone forever? Would he and Athos be able to rebuild their friendship without the same foundation they had started from originally? What if Athos decided to forgo giving him a chance to prove himself? 

His father had always told him to not borrow trouble, and that things would happen as they were meant to be. D’Artagnan had begun to think he was meant to be a Musketeer, meant to befriend Athos, Aramis, and Porthos. What if he had been wrong all along? Could he stand to lose his family all over again? 

Athos knew who Porthos and Aramis were; it wouldn’t be right for him to expect them to remain his friends if Athos did not accept him anymore. The three men had known each other for years and trusted each other implicitly. He was the last to join their squad; if he were to be quite honest, he would admit he didn’t have the same level of closeness with them as they had with each other, regardless of how much he considered them brothers. It wasn’t too difficult to guess that he would be asked to leave their squad if Athos wholly rejected him. It was a bittersweet to think they would at least remain acquaintances. He would be just another Musketeer brother-in-arms to Athos, eventually becoming the same to the others as well due to a lack of interaction between them. 

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the negative thoughts clouding his mind. 

It was entirely possible that Athos could regain his memories. He had to believe it, he had to remain hopeful or he would lose everything that mattered most to him in the world. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Eight: Odd Man Out 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**_Modus operandi_ : “**method of operating”; used to describe one’s habits or usual way of working. 

**_Grenoble_ :** A city in the southeastern part of France, at the foot of the French Alps. Grenoble’s history goes back more than 2,000 years, with the first references to the city dating back to 43BC. More recently, it was the host city of the X Olympic Winter Games in 1968. 

**ooooooo**


	9. Chapter Eight: Odd Man Out

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Eight: Odd Man Out**

D’Artagnan had no idea how long he had been sitting out at the edge of the woods, but after a while he felt ready to go back. He couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that neither of his friends had bothered to come after him. He guessed that Aramis had likely not wanted to leave the men on their own with both Athos and Porthos still being injured and recovering. It made sense, and he knew he would’ve been hard pressed to leave if he’d found himself in the same situation. 

However, he couldn’t dismiss the feeling this was the beginning of the end of their friendships. Already it seemed the word “family” did not apply to him in regards to the others. The term “brother” might as well be relegated solely to the context of brothers-in-arms, fellow soldiers. 

A part of him believed he was being utterly ridiculous for thinking in such a way when Athos had only just barely regained consciousness and his condition discovered. Yet, another part of him thought he was completely justified for the thoughts he was having. 

This wouldn’t be the first time he had been the odd man out with a group of friends. In many ways, he had been different from the other children in his village, which caused him to be excluded from most social gatherings. 

No mother. No siblings. No interest in farming. 

Wanting to learn the art of sword fighting. Wanting to see what there was beyond the borders of Gascony. 

His “friends” in Lupiac and the surrounding area didn’t understand him, and thought he was a troublemaker for wanting more in life than to work the land. It left his interactions with the young people of the village more and more stilted as they grew older. Eventually, he barely spoke to any of them and rarely saw them outside of market days and town gatherings, while they remained good friends with some of them pairing off to get married. 

With the Inseparables, the differences between them due to age and experience had seemed insignificant – until now. He was at least eight years* younger than the rest of them. The three of them had many more years of experience, not only in soldiering but in soldiering together. They had been through a lot as a three-man squad and trusted each other implicitly. They had a short hand in communicating that he was still learning, though he thought he finally was beginning to understand its basics. They were each the best at what they do, whether it was with swords, guns, or hand-to-hand combat. Of what use was he with his youth, inexperience, and lack of expertise in any discipline associated with being a soldier? 

He was the odd man out – again. As always. 

As he slowly walked back to the inn, d’Artagnan decided he would give the situation a chance to resolve itself, knowing it was foolish in the extreme for him not to. If Athos continued to reject him, then would he just drift away from the group. He wouldn’t allow himself to be the cause of dissention among the three men. They hadn’t needed him before his abrupt arrival into their lives, and they wouldn’t need him if he was to be reassigned to another squad. 

His heart skipped a beat at the thought of not remaining with his friends, men he had only just begun to consider family. However, if his leaving was required to make them happy, then he would do it without a second thought, regardless of how much it would destroy him in the end. 

It was entirely too premature to be thinking of defeat or of leaving, but he couldn’t help it. No matter how many times he thought he finally had something good going on in his life, he only got to enjoy it for a brief amount of time before it was cruelly ripped away from him. He had loved the men who he had once considered brothers and family perhaps a little too much, and now like every other time, they were being taken away from him as well. 

Like Constance. He’d had so little time to be with her and relish in their love. 

Like his father and their farm. He may not have wanted to do the farming himself, but renting out the house and land would’ve kept his father’s dream alive in some form. 

If he were to lose the companionship and friendship of the three Musketeers, then he would just have to figure out how to move on without them. Perhaps in time, he would again be blessed with something special. He had managed to move on before and he would do so again. 

At the door of the Roue Brisée, d’Artagnan paused to take a couple of slow, deep breaths, preparing himself for whatever came next. He would fight to get Athos’s memories back, and failing that, he would fight to reestablish their close friendship, but he would also continue preparing for the worst. 

He clearly remembered hearing his father’s words - _expect the best and prepare for the worst_ – more than once as he was growing up. They have been words to live by and words that had saved him more than once. He prayed that they would do so once again. 

D’Artagnan opened the door, squinting at the bright, cheery light the huge fireplace gave off and stepped inside ready now to face the future. Come what may. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Nine: Then and Now 

**ooooooo**

**Story/History Notes :**

**_“…at least eight years younger_ ”:** A reference to the real life differences in the ages of the actors who played Athos, Aramis, d’Artagnan, and Porthos. In this case, I’m referring specifically to the age difference between Tom Burke (Athos) and Luke Pasqualino (d’Artagnan), which is about eight years. 

**ooooooo**


	10. Chapter Nine: Then and Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> February 14th may be Valentine’s Day, but for people who live in the U.S. state of Arizona – my home state – it’s also Statehood Day. On 14 February 1912, U.S. President William Howard Taft signed Arizona into statehood. Happy 105th Arizona! Also, happy Statehood Day to Oregon (1859)!

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Nine: Then and Now**

The innkeeper halted his conversation with someone d’Artagnan assumed was a local and rushed over to him, asking if he needed anything. He marveled at the attention Monsieur Lavoie gave his customers, contrasting it with the first inn he’d stayed in after he had arrived in Paris. 

That landlady had charged for every little thing – except for the communal towel – trying to lighten his purse in every way imaginable, whereas Lavoie simply included most things as part of his usual service. He only charged extra for meals and alcohol. 

Thinking of that time reminded him of Milady, causing his stomach to turn as he realized that Athos no longer had any memory of his wife still being alive. He quickly turned his thoughts elsewhere at the idea that his friend would once again enslaved by the guilt of ordering her death. 

Except for a few pointed remarks he’d overheard, the Athos of a year and a half ago was almost a complete enigma to him. Porthos had once remarked that Athos was somewhat different than he used to be, hinting that it was him who had affected such a change. D’Artagnan had never been convinced of the older man’s theory, especially without any frame of reference as to how the man supposedly used to be. 

From the very beginning of their acquaintance, Athos had excelled at being aloof and stoic as well as drinking and being drunk. Until that business with Bonnaire, and the shocking discovery of Athos’s wife, d’Artagnan had thought he’d begun to see a decline in the amount the man drank. However, for some days afterward, Athos had proven how much of a champion drinker he was, but once that time had passed, the man’s consumption had gradually declined again. D’Artagnan had always assumed the uptick was due to finding out his wife was alive and that the decline was due to the realization of what an overindulgence in drink had almost led to – being burned to death and almost dying for the second time in so short a time. 

Due to the fact that he was the only one to know the true reason behind the sudden increase in alcohol consumption, d’Artagnan had tried to keep an eye on the older man. He had offered his company but it was rudely and adamantly denied every single time.  Instead, he continued to show up at the same tavern that Athos drank at, keeping an eye out for trouble from a distance. 

Thankfully, there was only one time where he’d had to intervene. Athos never once acknowledged his presence, essentially acting as if he didn’t exist. No words of gratitude were ever uttered either, but he had neither wanted nor needed thanks as he was simply helping someone he’d come to think of as a friend. 

However, after that time, Athos had begun to thaw towards him, and seemed to take an interest in his desire to become a Musketeer. In return, he trained hard and did the best he could on the missions he was allowed to partake in. Their friendship had started to grow from that point onward until he considered the older man a close friend. Other than proving he could be trusted with a secret, he could not see he had done anything special that would cause someone to change as much as Porthos was suggesting. 

He had to admit, if only to himself, that he was more than curious about how different Athos had supposedly been in the years before he’d joined the regiment. Yet, even that knowledge was unimportant next to the desire to have the man he remembered back with them. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan thanked the innkeeper for his hospitality, adding that he did not require anything at the moment except for his friends’ good health. 

He ran up the stairs before Lavoie could comment, suddenly eager to see his friends again, feeling ashamed he’d left them to fend for themselves while they were injured to varying degrees. However, when faced with the door to their room, he hesitated to enter, his hand hovering over the door latch. 

Athos didn’t know him from Adam, and he wasn’t sure of his welcome from either Aramis or Porthos after running out on them. He was an adult and a Musketeer; all three men in the room were his superiors in seniority, rank, and nearly every other sense. He would accept any punishment or rebuke without complaint that the older men felt was justified. 

Instead of opening the door, d’Artagnan raised his hand from the latch and knocked. He was just about to knock once more when Aramis opened the door, surprise then confusion stealing over his face. 

“D’Artagnan! Why didn’t you just come in?” 

He backed up half a step instead of immediately going in the room despite the fact that Aramis had stepped aside to let him in. 

“I’m sorry, Aramis. For everything. I just—” 

Aramis raised a hand to stop his bumbling apology, stepping out of the room and closing the door. “Hey!”—The older man laid a hand on his forearm—“Hey. I understand. I do. It’s a lot to take in. I wish you wouldn’t have left, but I understand.” 

D’Artagnan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re not angry?” 

“Should I be?” 

“Yes! I _left_ you, injured and alone with our even more injured friends!” d’Artagnan said, feeling frustration build within him at Aramis’s understanding. “You should be furious!” 

“Nothing happened while you were gone,” Aramis said, sounding faintly exasperated. “I believe I am perfectly capable of watching over our friends’ sleep.” 

“They’re alright?” 

Aramis stepped forward and shifted to grip his shoulder. “They’re fine,” the older man said, before rolling his eyes and looking thoughtful. “Relatively speaking.” 

“What have you said about me to Athos?” 

“He hasn’t been awake long enough for me to say much of anything to him. He is in a fair amount of pain and keeps falling back asleep before I can complete a thought. Then he doesn’t remember what I’ve said previously.” 

D’Artagnan could feel himself paling at the news, prompting Aramis to quickly reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. 

“Whoa! It’s alright. Truly. It’s completely normal for a head wound of that severity. Much pain. Much sleep. Little remembered at first.” 

“Except that he doesn’t remember me at all,” he said, feeling his earlier negativity trying to reassert itself. 

“Except that, yes.” 

“Can I—? Is it alright for me to see Porthos?” 

Aramis’s eyes filled with sympathy and something else he couldn’t quite identify. “Idiot. You don’t even have to ask. You know that.” 

D’Artagnan ducked his head in embarrassment as he nodded his agreement. It didn’t stop the negative thoughts that had been swirling around in his head from briefly popping up in his mind once again. He struggled to shove them to the back of his mind as Aramis opened the door and let them both into the room. He made sure to orchestrate things so that Aramis entered the room first to avoid any awkwardness should Athos be awake. 

He had barely stepped into the room before an arm shot out and pulled him close for a tight hug. 

“Porthos,” d’Artagnan said, his voice muffled from his face being smashed into his larger friend’s chest. 

He remained tense until Porthos squeezed again and he felt what must’ve been Aramis’s hand landing on his back. Only after that physical reassurance did he begin to relax into the hug. Porthos held on for another moment before letting go. 

“Stop worrying,” Porthos said lowly in deference to their sleeping friend. “Everything will work out, yeah?” 

D’Artagnan flashed a smile he knew didn’t reach his eyes, causing Porthos and Aramis to catch each other’s gaze. He knew they were worried about him, even though they shouldn’t be. It was Athos who was severely injured, not him; it was Athos they should be worrying about, not him. Though his friends were well on their way to recovering from their injuries, they should also be put before him. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked Porthos. 

“Fine and fit and ready for Athos to come to his senses.” 

“He will, my friend. Have faith,” Aramis said as Porthos yawned. “And now I think it’s time for you to get some rest.” 

Porthos smirked. “I was just about to say the same ‘bout you.” 

“I will, if you will.” 

“Fine,” Porthos said as he limped to the other bed and sat down. 

Aramis went over towards Athos, presumably to check the man’s condition. 

“What are you doing?” Porthos asked even though it was obvious. 

“I’m checking—” 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“No,” Porthos replied, pointing towards the pallet on the floor. 

Aramis began grumbling something to himself under his breath that, just by the tone of the words, did not sound very polite. He moved to the makeshift bed, but sat down only after Porthos lay back on his bed. 

D’Artagnan watched the by-play between the two men with the first amount of amusement he’d felt in days, though he still did not manage to smile. He knew he was supposed to have the first watch of the night so had not bothered to interject any commentary into the situation, though he was nervous about having to deal with an Athos who no longer knew him. 

When Aramis finished taking off his boots, he asked, “D’Artagnan, are you alright to be on watch?” 

“Of course,” he replied, feeling less confident than he knew he had sounded. 

Aramis gave him a look that told him his friend was aware of his misgivings, but he waved the older man off.  “I’ll wake you in a few hours.” 

Aramis started to speak, but Porthos interrupted. “Aramis.” 

“Porthos,” Aramis replied in an equally bland tone. He saw the sharpshooter roll his eyes before pointing to Porthos as he said, “Actually, you’ll wake him.” 

The two Musketeers shared a look d’Artagnan wished he could decipher all of the nuances of. Then, they both reclined on their respective beds in concert with each other. He shook his head in fondness towards the pair’s antics. It didn’t take long before it became obvious that both men were asleep. 

D’Artagnan was torn between being relieved his friends were getting some real sleep and dreading he was now alone with his thoughts for a few hours. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued…_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Ten: Excess Baggage 

**ooooooo**


	11. Chapter Ten: Excess Baggage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I would take the opportunity to remind everyone that this part of the story is entirely from d’Artagnan’s POV, which naturally is limited to his perception of events. As a result, there will be gaps of information which may or may not be filled in later in the story.   
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Ten: Excess Baggage**

By the time he woke Porthos, d’Artagnan felt he had been right to dread his time spent with only his thoughts to keep him company. 

Several times he wished he could do something, anything, to relieve some of his anxious energy, but he couldn’t even pace the room in fear of waking his friends. 

D’Artagnan was now more afraid of Athos waking while the others were asleep. He’d only had to face Athos not recognizing him once already, and wasn’t sure he was prepared for the inevitable next time it happened. Thankfully, all three men slept through his watch without any problems arising. 

When he woke Porthos, they accidentally disturbed Aramis, so he convinced his friend to move to the bed Porthos had just vacated. Aramis wasn’t quite awake enough to really protest the move and practically sleepwalked through the whole exchange. D’Artagnan was half-convinced Aramis would be utterly confused in the morning as to how he’d ended up in the bed. He couldn’t help but be amused by the prospect and thought it a harmless prank that actually benefitted Aramis in the end. Besides, the older man could use the rest after being so focused on tending to Athos and Porthos, while also hampered by an injury. 

D’Artagnan, despite all of the thoughts rolling and crashing around in his head, managed to immediately drop off to sleep on the pallet Aramis had recently vacated. When his insomnia was at its peak, there was always a point where his body finally decided it had had enough and would finally allow him to fall asleep. It seemed like this was one of those instances. 

When he did wake, he was lying on his side and facing the wall; he felt like he had been asleep for hardly any time at all. 

After a moment, he realized he could hear voices coming from behind him. He was just about to turn onto to his back when he heard Athos ask about who was sleeping on the floor. 

A lifetime seemed to pass by before Aramis began to answer Athos’s question. D’Artagnan thought the delay was likely due to Aramis contemplating how much Athos should be told at this point in his recovery.  With some help from Porthos, Aramis quietly told Athos his name, where he had come from, and a few other basic details, but kept away from the near disaster of how they’d all first met. 

“Are we being punished?” Athos asked, his voice sounding rough from not speaking much recently. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Did we do something to warrant…the boy being assigned with us on this mission?” 

“Do—? No. You’ve got it all wrong.” Aramis paused, and the Gascon wished he could see what was going on. “D’Artagnan is a Musketeer and our good friend. He is now a permanent part of our squad.” 

The Gascon could hardly bear the silence as he awaited Athos’s reaction. 

“Since when have we _ever_ needed a fourth?” 

“You’re right. We didn’t _need_ anyone else—” 

“Actually—” Porthos said quite loudly, interrupting whatever else Aramis had been about to say. 

“Porthos!” Aramis said before telling the larger man to quiet down. 

As a result, he couldn’t hear the rest of what any of the three men said. But it didn’t matter. 

_He_ didn’t matter, or make a difference, and apparently was only excess baggage to the others, being humored in their friendship. 

D’Artagnan had to fight to keep his breathing normal in order to make it look as if he were still sleeping. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and began willing himself to fall back asleep; it was the only way he could escape this new hell on earth he had been left in. 

He’d always wondered if he hadn’t forced his way onto their perfect, inseparable team. And now he had confirmation that the others thought him to be superfluous from practically the beginning. At times, he still felt, although not as often recently, he was still the outsider, especially when the three men “spoke” through expressions or gestures alone. It was a language he was still learning, even more difficult to grasp than when he first learned French as a young boy in Gascony. To this day, it seemed to him that he got what they were “saying” wrong more often than he got it right. The others still laughed at him about that time in the Rue Saint-Denis *****. 

On missions, there were incidents that made him continue to feel out of sync with his friends. Oft times they used their past experiences together on missions to hint at how to handle a situation or if trouble was at hand. He may have heard many of the stories about their past adventures, but that didn’t always give him the insider knowledge necessary to understand their off-hand remarks. If he hadn’t been able to infer from the situation and take his cue from the Musketeers’ actions, then he probably would’ve been dismissed and reassigned to another squad long ago. 

How many times had the others simply put up with him? How many times had they needed to alter their plans to accommodate or include him? How many times had they wished he had not been there in the first place? 

His desire to rapidly slip back into sleep was thwarted by his insomnia, his mind refusing to quiet the whirlwind of thoughts going around and around in his head. Apparently, he was meant to be tormented by the whispered conversation of his three brothers-in-arms. Without turning over, he couldn’t see what they were doing, but his imagination filled in the blanks... 

Porthos and Aramis were sitting next to Athos’s bed. Porthos would eventually put his feet up on the bed frame, and Athos would glare at him but still allow the intrusion into his space. Aramis would act like Athos being injured was of no consequence while simultaneously acting like a mother hen. Athos would seem disgruntled over the treatment even if it was obvious the man didn’t truly mind. 

If he had been sitting with them, then he would’ve been trying to get Athos to accept that he needed time to heal as well as keeping the older man distracted from the boredom that accompanied recovering from injury. Perhaps he would even try his luck at getting the older man to full-on smile, something that he had come close to succeeding at back when he’d won his pauldron. 

It seemed from their easy manner of speech that everything was alright, and that he was not needed by them. They were as they had been before he’d ever met the three Musketeers. 

Perhaps he’d been wrong in thinking the three men could be his family. Perhaps he was meant to go through life alone. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Eleven: New Normal 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**_Rue Saint-Denis_** :  One of the oldest streets in Paris. Its route was first laid out in the 1st century by the Romans, and then extended to the north in the Middle Ages. From the Middle Ages to the present day, the street has become notorious as a place of prostitution. Its name derives from it being the historic route to Saint-Denis. I have a couple of ideas, but decided to leave it up to your imagination what actually happened to d’Artagnan. 

**ooooooo**


	12. Chapter Eleven: New Normal

.

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Eleven: New Normal**   

D’Artagnan was startled by someone grabbing his shoulder, and he had to pull back his fist in order to keep from hitting Aramis in the face. 

“Sorry,” he said, smiling sheepishly. 

From the light in the room, he could tell that it was well into morning, and realized he must have dropped off again at some point. What he didn’t understand was why neither Porthos nor Aramis had bothered to wake him up before then. 

When he asked, Aramis replied, “We, uh… We decided you needed your sleep.” 

Something definitely rang false in the way Aramis had relayed the excuse, which seemed flimsy to his ears. It made him think his friend was either lying or wasn’t telling him everything – or both. 

D’Artagnan almost argued the point, but then he remembered his thoughts from the previous night and instead nodded his acceptance of the explanation. At least his insomnia had finally allowed him to get some sleep, though he was feeling far from rested. 

When they had first arrived at the inn with Athos unconscious and sitting in front of Aramis, there had been no thought as to how many rooms they would get. They would only need one. None of them had even considered otherwise, not wanting to be separated from their wounded friends. 

Even when an entire day had gone by without a change in Athos’s condition, there had been no thought given towards taking another room. It didn’t matter that they had to take turns sleeping on a barely-cushioned pallet on the dusty, wooden floor; they were not leaving the room unless absolutely necessary. When the need arose, one of them would remain behind while the others would check on the horses, get sustenance, or do whatever else was needed to be done. It was how they had always done it. They were there for each other no matter what. 

However, now that Athos was awake, it was apparent the man did not seem to want him around, and the others didn’t seem overly bothered by the idea that the older man was snubbing him. As the time passed, Athos would only really relax if one or both of their friends was also in the room, so d’Artagnan spent a lot of time outside of it doing chores. When Athos deigned to look at him, it was with suspicion in his eyes. It seemed the older man could not, or would not, even provisionally trust him as a fellow Musketeer, despite the fact that Aramis and Porthos treated him as a friend.   

Due to Athos’s behavior, d’Artagnan had yet to sleep in the second bed, mainly because it was in Athos’s line of sight. Every time he got what Athos deemed to be too close, which was really not that close at all, the man’s face would change – and not for the better. D’Artagnan could hardly recognize it as the one belonging to someone he considered his best friend. The eyes, which already held no recognition for him, would turn cold and bordered on contempt when they beheld him, especially when the other two men weren’t looking. 

Eventually, he decided he did not want to cause Athos any more pain or grief than what the man’s head injury was already causing. Therefore, he was the one who consistently used the bed hastily put together on the floor, believing it was better for him to be out of sight. Even now, when one of them stayed awake and kept watch, he was relegated to the watch Athos would consistently sleep through. 

In this way, the next two days passed. On the third day, he began considering getting a separate room, though he wasn’t sure he would be able to afford one for more than two or three days. It all depended on how long it would be until Athos would be fit enough to travel. He needed to ask Aramis’s opinion of how much longer it would be until they could get back on the road. 

The first full day Athos had been awake, they had immediately discovered that the sunlight coming into the room was too bright for the man to handle, causing tremendous pain if the reaction was anything to go by. They would need to stay at least long enough that Athos could stand light stronger than what a few candles provided. 

If he remembered correctly, the Roue Brisée only had four rooms besides the quarters for the innkeeper and his family who lived on the top floor. From what he had discerned from the talk he’d overheard when he’d been sent to gather meals or check on the horses, d’Artagnan believed there was still one room left unoccupied. 

Their other concern was that they were due to be back in Paris in less than a week, otherwise Tréville would consider them overdue. At this point, it seemed almost certain that they would be late in returning to the garrison. They needed to get word back to Paris before their Captain sent other Musketeers out searching for them. 

When he’d gone to get them something to eat at midday, Aramis actually came with him, which he considered a sign of Athos’s continued improvement. When it didn’t take personal needs or a form of coercion to get the man to leave the room, it meant that the injured was finally on the road to recovery. 

Aramis brought up the topic of getting a separate room before he did. 

“D’Artagnan…” Aramis ran a hand through his hair. “I think it might be a good idea if you slept elsewhere. Athos, with his memory gone, can’t seem to get proper rest when you are around.” 

“I’ve noticed,” d’Artagnan said. “I was thinking the same thing myself.” 

He looked into his friend’s face and saw both shame and guilt. 

“Aramis, I understand why. I do.”—He laid a hand on the older man’s shoulder—“I want Athos to recover as soon as possible. If my sleeping in a different place will help, then I’m happy to do it.” 

Aramis patted the hand he’d put on the man’s shoulder, favoring him with a smile that was more sad than encouraging. 

“Either Porthos or I will join you tonight. If that’s alright?” 

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Of course. You don’t need to ask.”—He stood up from the table that they had been sitting at—“I’ll go speak to the innkeeper.” 

For once on this cursed mission, d’Artagnan had a bit of good luck. There had indeed been only one room left and he had managed to secure it only minutes before someone else inquired about a place to stay. Given their unfortunate situation, Monsieur Lavoie charged less than half the amount they had been charged on their last visit, something he was extremely grateful for. The room was decent, but small, and he managed a smile at the thought that Porthos might be too big to fit in the room with him. In the end, it hadn’t mattered; he had spent that night alone in his new room. 

Earlier in the evening, he’d been sent to fetch them all dinner. With heavy tray in hand, he’d lightly kicked at the door to be let into the room. However, when Porthos had opened the door and d’Artagnan tried to enter, the taller man had blocked his way. 

Taking the tray from his hands, Porthos said, “Athos…He, uh… He’s not in the mood for company right now.” 

“Is he alright?” 

“He’s fine. He just—” 

“Doesn’t want me around,” d’Artagnan finished for the other man. 

Porthos’ look of apology and compassion made it difficult for him to be too angry, but the feelings of hurt blossomed regardless. 

“I understand,” d’Artagnan said even though his heart felt like a lead weight in his stomach. Hoping to have some company later, he asked, “Who is going to be my roommate tonight?” 

“Dunno. We haven’t talked about it yet.” 

D’Artagnan nodded; he had the feeling he wouldn’t see either Aramis or Porthos again that night. 

“I’ll see one of you later, then,” he said. “Good night.” 

“Good night, d’Artagnan,” Porthos said, taking the tray into the room and quietly shutting the door. 

D’Artagnan thought of the food on the tray that was supposed to be his portion only after he’d entered his own room. He decided it no longer mattered as he had lost his appetite. 

Too many negative thoughts rolling around in his head kept him awake much of the night. He attempted to tire himself out by cleaning and sharpening his weapons. It worked to an extent, but in the end he only got a couple hours of sleep. 

Neither of his friends came to the room, and he spent another night entirely alone. 

It was becoming ever more evident that alone was going to be his new normal. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Twelve: Return Trip 

**ooooooo**

.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Return Trip

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twelve: Return Trip**

It was another day before Athos was able to withstand the bright light of the sun. 

D’Artagnan had been tasked with borrowing, renting, or buying a cart or carriage. Unfortunately, even if they had pooled all of their dwindling funds together, they were still unable to afford buying something, and none of the locals would let them borrow a cart either. He didn’t blame the people of the village; one’s cart was part of your livelihood, and it was obvious none of the townsfolk could afford to be without for God only knew how long. 

That left their horses as their only mode of transportation. Aramis had informed both him and Porthos that Athos would not be allowed to ride by himself for the first leg of their return journey at the very least. To prevent the horses from being injured, they would have to ride double and switch between the animals, using Athos’s horse as the spare. 

When the plan had first been revealed, it had been made subtly, but abundantly, clear that Athos would not double with him unless the situation was absolutely dire. His friend had briefly tensed up, and seemed as if he were about to argue against the arrangement, when Aramis had quickly added that d’Artagnan would be serving as a scout. Watching Athos relax at the knowledge that he and his horse would remain exempt from riding double made d’Artagnan’s heart heavier than it had already been. 

Hat pulled as low as possible to shade his eyes, Athos did an excellent job of pretending d’Artagnan hardly existed. Nothing he said or did put even the smallest crack or dent into the seemingly impenetrable wall that had formed between him and Athos. 

The trip back to Paris was not smooth sailing, but they made it through the countryside as best they could one day at a time. Due to Athos’s head wound, Porthos’s still-recovering leg, and the necessity of riding double, the four of them were traveling at a much slower pace than normal. 

Neither Aramis nor Porthos bothered to inform him of anything directly related to Athos, so he had to glean what he could from observation only. It was obvious that bright light still bothered Athos somewhat, making the man’s head ache and, if d’Artagnan wasn’t mistaken, making him feel nauseous as well. 

Not long into their first day of travel, Athos lost the meagre contents of his stomach. It was also quite apparent his friend was suffering from frequent headaches. From past experience, d’Artagnan knew these symptoms were not unusual for so recent and severe a head wound, but he was worried the constant upset from travelling was doing nothing but slowing the man’s recovery. 

However, given recent events, he dared not allow that worry to show on his face or express it too obviously through his actions unless he wanted to risk provoking Athos’s ire. Even if the older man didn’t remember him, d’Artagnan still cared about his friend. In fact, he cared just as much as ever, but couldn’t help feeling sorry for himself over Athos’s apparent near hatred of him. 

Though funds were extremely tight, Aramis insisted they stop at an inn every night so Athos could get some proper rest before the next day’s travel. They could only afford a small room each night, which sometimes had a bed big enough for two which left more space on the floor for the others. D’Artagnan stayed out of the way as late into the night as possible before turning in, choosing the farthest, darkest corner of the room. With his insomnia continuing to plague him, it was also easy for him to be up and out of the room before Athos would wake each morning. 

Their mission may have been completed early, but the extra days they had gained were almost gone, and they were getting close to being overdue at the garrison. Before beginning the journey back to Paris, the three older men had, without his input, decided to adopt a wait-and-see strategy regarding informing Captain Tréville about Athos’s injury. Now they had no choice but to inform their captain unless they wanted to risk a search party being sent out for them, which Tréville would do if they were overdue more than two days. 

Given the slow pace at which they were traveling, they would likely be past that two-day leeway time by at least one day, maybe more, depending on how much Athos’s condition improved as they continued on. They were all well aware how displeased Tréville would be to waste time and resources on Musketeers who were _not_ missing or in danger. Thus, it was at the point when a message must to be sent on ahead of them to Paris. 

Despite feeling like a coward for wanting to retreat, d’Artagnan saw the situation as his chance to escape the tense and unhappy atmosphere in which he had found himself. He felt everything would be easier without his presence causing tension amongst the three men, and it would give Athos the distance from him that the older man seemed to so desperately crave. 

D’Artagnan immediately volunteered to carry the message to Tréville. When Aramis and Porthos quickly objected to the idea, he demanded the two men explain why he shouldn’t be the messenger. They couldn’t come up with any reasons beyond the danger of traveling alone – something any person they hired would also have to do. 

“Gentlemen, the Boy has volunteered, and as a fully-commissioned Musketeer, is he not perfectly capable of accomplishing such a simple task? I don’t see any reason why he shouldn’t be the one to go,” Athos said, putting an end to the discussion. 

He had tried to not to overtly react to Athos’s dismissal and rejection, but from the sympathetic look he received from Porthos, d’Artagnan knew he had failed. 

At twilight the next morning he was packed up and ready to go. Aramis gave him a note for Captain Tréville and he rode away from the inn without once looking back. 

ooooooo 

Other than taking a few short breaks, d’Artagnan rode all day and stopped only when he could no longer see the road well enough to continue. Once dawn broke the following morning, he estimated he would be able to reach Paris and the garrison by midday. 

Although he had made his escape from the immediate situation caused by Athos’s injury, his troubles still relentlessly followed him. There was only a scant few minutes in which his mind did not turn towards all that had recently happened. 

Though he hoped and prayed for Athos to fully recover his memories, d’Artagnan was absolutely terrified it would not happen. He hadn’t been so afraid since the moment the reality of his father’s death had sunk in the day after he had helped to prove Athos’s innocence. Back then he had felt so very alone and uncertain of his future, and now that feeling was slowly creeping back into his psyche, pervading his every thought and action. 

ooooooo 

When Paris was finally in his sights, he nudged his horse to go faster, anxious to be back at the garrison. After he rode through the gate, he dismounted and handed the reins to a stable boy, asking if the Captain was in his office. Getting an affirmative, d’Artagnan headed directly up the stairs and immediately knocked on the door, barely waiting for permission to enter. 

Captain Tréville was equal parts relieved and surprised by his appearance. Judging by the Captain’s face, his report and Aramis’s note only cemented those feelings for the man as well as adding concern for Athos’s well-being. When Tréville ordered him to remain at the garrison and not go out to meet his comrades, d’Artagnan once again surprised the man by acquiescing to the order without any complaint or attempts to change his mind. 

He didn’t know what to say in order to get the Captain to understand his sudden passivity. Normally, he would fight tooth and nail to stay by Athos’s side when the man was injured, but this was no normal injury. The others were better off without him there to cause Athos any further aggravation, which in turn might hinder the man’s recovery. 

Tréville also ordered him to stand down and get cleaned up, some rest, and a decent meal. The older man promised that, if Aramis, Porthos, and Athos took longer than the next day and a half to return, then he would send some men out. D’Artagnan honestly tried to follow his Captain’s orders to the letter, but he couldn’t seem to settle. Cleaning up after being on the dusty road was easy; it was resting and getting something to eat that he couldn’t follow through on. 

In the end, he decided his time might best be served preparing things for the return of his friends. It was the least he could do and would probably be greatly appreciated by Aramis and Porthos depending on how well Athos fared on the road. It did not matter to him if the others ever noticed or thanked him for his efforts; d’Artagnan would be content in the knowledge he had found a way to help to the older men.   

Hours later, Athos’s room at the garrison was likely the cleanest it had ever been since the building itself was built. He had spoken to Serge, who had promised to keep something set aside for the men to eat when they returned, as well as some broth and hot water in case either was needed. From the Infirmary, he had gathered as many things as he thought Aramis might need to help Athos. Now all that was left for him to do was wait for their return. 

And wait he did; each hour seemed to be passing more slowly than the last. In fact, he waited long enough that the deadline given for his friends to return had almost passed. Despite his earlier resolution to remain at the garrison, he was almost ready to request permission to go after his three friends. At some point, he managed to fulfill the Captain’s orders by eating some food and getting a little sleep, but he doubted Aramis would think it anywhere enough. Tréville kept him on light duty by giving him small errands to run, which helped to keep him from obsessing too much about the situation. 

When he could, he took up a position where he could easily watch the main gate, keeping a lookout for his friends and praying that Athos had recovered his memories. With only a quarter of a day left before Tréville’s deadline ended, his friends came riding through the gate. The air in his lungs rushed out in a relieved sigh, and he felt muscles he hadn’t realized were tense relax ever so slightly. 

Not knowing Athos’s state of mind, d’Artagnan moved to stand in the shadows of the staircase leading up to the Captain’s office, and used the empty riser space between steps to observe his friends. He had already noted that Athos was riding with Porthos, but that didn’t necessarily mean the man’s memories had not returned. It felt cowardly to hide from his friends, but he couldn’t help it. He now felt gun-shy around them; their short time apart had only served to increase his apprehension over the possibility of once more being rejected by Athos. 

Aramis helped Athos down off the horse, and the two carefully walked towards Athos’s room. Porthos watched until the two men were out of sight before turning to look straight at him. D’Artagnan stepped out from the shadows, but could not bring himself to ask about Athos’s memory; from what he’d observed, he had a feeling he already knew the answer. 

Porthos grimaced and said, “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan.” 

He nodded, and forced himself to adopt a stoic mask of indifference though his heart was aching in his chest. 

“The Captain wanted to see either you or Aramis when you returned,” he said. 

“I’ll go,” Porthos said, stepping forward to briefly clasp his shoulder before turning to head up the stairs. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Thirteen: Failures to Communicate 

**ooooooo**


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Failures to Communicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 13-15 were not written to conform to a strict chronological order of the days following the return of Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to Paris. Instead, they are meant to be vignettes, glimpses into what's happening to d'Artagnan during that time.

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Thirteen: Failures to Communicate**

In time, Athos recovered enough to go back on duty. At first, he was only allowed to train and attend to light duties, but eventually – though if d’Artagnan had to guess probably not as quickly as Athos had wanted – the older man went back on full duty. 

For Athos’s first mission outside of Paris, d’Artagnan decided there was no point to putting himself forward when Captain Tréville asked for a volunteer to accompany the older man. Aramis was chosen to go with Athos, which left him and Porthos behind, both of them worrying about how their friend would fare on the journey. 

By this point, d’Artagnan had seen for himself that the lack of almost two years-worth of memories had not affected Athos’s skill with a blade or his ability to do his duty. It was only his lack of knowledge regarding current events at the palace and elsewhere that continued to stymie the man. 

With both Athos and Aramis away from the city, d’Artagnan had the chance to spend some time with Porthos for the first time since Athos’s memories had been stolen by a single bullet. They were assigned guard duty at the palace, and didn’t have much opportunity to speak to each other, but it felt good to be in the older man’s presence once again. 

In fact, it felt like old times, yet d’Artagnan was keenly aware the feeling of contentment he was experiencing would not last much longer since Aramis and Athos were due back by early evening. Despite his concern for Athos over the man’s first mission back on full duty, d’Artagnan managed to enjoy the day. 

When he and Porthos returned to the garrison, they were barely off their horses before Aramis, who had a worried expression on his face, quickly approached Porthos. D’Artagnan knew right away that it was about Athos, but after shooting him an apologetic glance, Aramis grabbed Porthos’s arm and dragged the other man away towards the direction of Athos’s room. He was left standing alone in the courtyard with two horses and no idea what was wrong with his friend. 

However, the next morning at muster, all seemed to be well again with Athos, though it looked like the three men had hardly slept. Despite knowing he shouldn’t bother, d’Artagnan tried asking Aramis about the incident, but all the other man would say was that they were all doing well and that he need not worry. After that rebuff, d’Artagnan gave up trying to ask for information directly, settling once more for observing, as discretely as possible, the men he once considered his closest friends. 

While there seemed to have been an uptick in the number of nights that Athos drank to excess, there were also too many nights when d’Artagnan had the feeling the drawn and pale look on the older man’s face was caused by something else. Without more information, and given his exclusion by the three men, he could only speculate as to what was going on. He was worried it had something to do with Athos’s head wound, and wondered if the older man would ever truly recover from the injury. 

Captain Tréville still assigned the two of them on duty and missions together, causing him to wonder if the man had not noticed just how much Athos disliked him or if he was trying to help them form a new bond. Unless the older man was giving him an order or was criticizing something he had done, Athos refused to speak to him. The older man somehow also managed to avoid uttering the most basic of social niceties. 

Before the head injury, they had been so attuned to each other that at times it seemed they were reading each other’s minds. Now it was a mess of false starts, wrong moves, increasing anger on Athos’s side, and increasing frustration on his end. 

ooooooo 

A mission to Châlons* to escort a minor noble back to Paris for the sole purpose of attending to some whim or other of the King’s, convinced d’Artagnan that it would be best if he did not go on missions with Athos any longer. 

The order to fetch the noble didn’t come until after midday, yet they were forced to leave as soon as preparations could be completed. Due to the late start, and the urgency pressed upon them by the King’s impatience, the four of them attempted to cover as much distance to the noble’s chateau as they could before it got too dark to see the road. 

Because there was no inn nearby when they stopped for the night, they had to sleep out under the stars. D’Artagnan was given every menial task in setting up camp, and from time to time he caught apologetic looks on Porthos and Aramis’s faces. With Athos’s refusal to talk to him beyond issuing orders, conversation was stilted and awkward even between Porthos and Aramis. 

Athos gave him the second watch of the night, which was generally considered to be the worst of them, even when his insomnia wasn’t a factor. In general, when you’re assigned the second watch of the night, it seemed like you had barely gotten to sleep before you were awakened again. After the second watch, if you were lucky, you would get a few more hours before having to wake up for the day. At the best of times, the disrupted sleep made it difficult to get a decent night’s rest. D’Artagnan didn’t think Athos gave him the watch out of true spite, but simply because no one liked it, which made it a perfect means of reinforcing his antipathy towards him. 

In this case, he didn’t mind having the second watch as it gave him the opportunity to escape the awkwardness of having to be in the presence of someone who seemed to almost hate his very existence. It also made it easier for Aramis and Porthos, who he knew were finding themselves in the middle of the conflict and being forced to choose sides between him and Athos. However, once he laid down on his bedroll, he could tell it would be one of his sleepless nights. He quickly resolved to remain quietly in place, back turned to the fire and the other men. It allowed his body to get some rest even if his mind was refusing to follow suit. 

He could hear the others speaking quietly amongst themselves, their conversation and occasional laughter flowing naturally and with better spirits than he’d experienced all that day from them. It was good being close to his friends and hearing them speak warmly and laugh without reserve, save for volume of their voices. 

At first, he pretended it was like old times, but he found that he couldn’t sustain the illusion for very long. Loneliness welled up within him and it took all his concentration to keep up the appearance that he was sleeping – not that he thought any of the three men would notice anything different. 

Porthos technically had first watch, but Athos and Aramis kept most of it with him. Just before he was to take over, the cadence of the conversation briefly turned to harsh-sounding whispers. Suddenly, the group fell silent and, after a minute or so, he heard the other two men bedding down for the night. Porthos “woke” him not long afterwards. 

Knowing his insomnia was pretty much in full effect, d’Artagnan decided he would let the other three men sleep for the rest of the night undisturbed, taking over the remaining watches. He knew Athos would be angry with him and punish him for defying orders, but at that moment, he didn’t much care. 

The night was cool, but not cold, and the almost-full moon seemed closer and brighter than usual. He was content to enjoy the night while remaining vigilant to his duty. Besides, he didn’t feel like pretending he could sleep, and thought it better to give the other men a decent night’s sleep while he was unable to have the same. 

As predicted, the next morning Athos was indeed angry with him for what he had done. As punishment, d’Artagnan had to do the majority of the chores, with the promise of more punishment to come for not following orders. The added chores weren’t much more than he’d had to do the night before, so he really didn’t mind the extra work. He couldn’t help but wonder just how long he’d be under Athos’s censure. 

Aramis momentarily caught his eye at one point, giving him a look that said the man understood the reason why d’Artagnan had remained on watch for the remainder of the night. However, when Aramis tried to explain that reason, Athos refused to listen or take it into account in terms of his punishment. It was apparent, that in the other man’s mind, there was no excuse for not following orders. Or rather, there was no excuse if _d’Artagnan_ did not follow orders down to the letter. 

As he worked, d’Artagnan’s memories traveled backward in time to a mission where he had done the exact same thing and for the same reason. He had been gently, but thoroughly scolded, and then told to gather firewood – the job that all four of them hated the most when camping out. 

The third or fourth time he’d kept the watch for longer than his share, d’Artagnan had been confronted by the others about his continued disregard of the set night watches. Several skillful questions later, and he was admitting to his previously-secret issue with sleeping. Instead of anger for withholding that vital piece of information about himself, the other men radiated concern for him and showed a willingness to help him with his problem. 

One of the compromises they had come up with for when he was dealing with his insomnia out on the road was that he was only to be given the third or fourth watch of the night.  This forced him to get some rest, if not sleep, for part of the night and made it more difficult to give into the temptation to let his friends slumber until morning. It had taken time, but eventually he had gotten in the habit of admitting to his bouts of insomnia. 

With the discord between him and Athos, d’Artagnan hadn’t even thought of mentioning a resurgence of his trouble, and he was now paying the price. When both Aramis and Porthos began to make yet another attempt to explain the situation, d’Artagnan waved them both off, giving the two men a smile of gratitude before continuing making breakfast. 

ooooooo 

When the noble’s carriage was attacked by a group of thieves on their return trip, d’Artagnan witnessed just how out of sync the four of them now were as a team. 

The Athos of now – the one without his memories of working on a four-man team – moved and reacted as if there were only two others he had to work with and around. Athos had automatically fallen back to the patterns he, Porthos, and Aramis had established when working together, forgetting to accommodate a fourth man. Realizing his error, Athos quickly adjusted, and they managed to defeat the ill-equipped gang of robbers with only a few minor cuts and bruises on their side. 

Naturally, Athos took out his frustrations about the nearly-disastrous mission out on him despite an attempted intervention by Porthos and Aramis. Despite the further breaking of his heart, d’Artagnan stoically bore the vitriol and blame. It wasn’t too much of a stretch to think that, from then on, Athos would be even more reluctant to have anything to do with him as a Musketeer. In fact, he was almost certain Athos would no longer tolerate his presence – even for the sake of a mission. 

That was when d’Artagnan made a difficult decision: he would do all he could to avoid being assigned to duty or on missions with any of the three men, cutting himself completely off from those he’d once thought of as friends. It was perfectly clear that Athos preferred to exclude him to the point of pretending he did not exist, so his absence would not make much difference to the man. D’Artagnan no longer wanted to risk the lives of his brothers-in-arms as well as his friends because he was now the odd man out. 

When they returned to Paris, d’Artagnan on the pretext of wanting to gain more experience working with other Musketeers, began requesting to be placed on duty with other teams. 

As a result, he saw his now-former friends even less than before. D’Artagnan now felt more alone in the world than ever before. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fourteen: Names 

**ooooooo**

 

 **Story/History Notes :**

**_Châlons_ :**  The city was also called Châlons-sur-Marne until 1998, when the name was changed to Châlons-en-Champagne.  It is the capital of the region of Champagne-Ardenne and is located east of Paris. The map of France in _Atlas Maior_ spells the city’s name without the circumflex (^) over the ‘a’. ( See: The Chapter Four note for _Nogent-le-Rotrou_ for more info on the _Atlas Maior._ )  Random bit of trivia: A sign pointing to Châlons-sur-Marne is briefly seen in _It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown_.  

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celticgal1041 has generously written a series of four great tags to accompany chapters 13-16 of this story. Each tag delves a bit further into events that I mention in my chapters. Be on the lookout for “Hard Lessons” which will be posted following my weekly update.


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Names

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of you want to smack Athos upside the head, and you’ll probably want to do it again with this chapter, but don’t forget he’s still recovering from a head wound. ;o)
> 
> Don’t forget to check out Celticgal1041’s tag to this chapter in “Hard Lessons”.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fourteen: Names**   

Names have power*. 

Since that first day he woke up, Athos had been calling him ‘Boy’ regardless of how many times either Aramis or Porthos reminded the man of d’Artagnan’s proper name. 

For some reason d’Artagnan did not understand, Athos refused to learn – or rather, re-learn – his name. Either that, or Athos was well-aware of his name, and was taking perverse pleasure in tormenting him by making him feel as if he were an awkward 12-year-old who had just gone through his first true growth spurt. For that was how he felt whenever Athos called him by that moniker. 

And that name definitely had power when it was wielded by Athos. Because of the derisive tone when using that hated name, some of the other Musketeers had also started using it to mock him. Unless Porthos or Aramis were nearby to disabuse them of the notion, those same men would refuse to call him d’Artagnan and used ‘Boy’ instead. 

It didn’t take long before he felt as if he could do nothing right, which eventually translated into him actually doing some things wrong. In fact, in his eyes, he wasn’t managing to do much of anything right. He was making mistakes he normally would not make, and Athos somehow always had the knack for being present at the time. 

Soldiers of Athos’s rank within the Musketeers could order the lower ranks around and punish them if necessary. Unless it was a major offense, most preferred to not exercise the latter, opting to let Captain Tréville dole out any punishments. 

However, Athos gave the impression he thoroughly enjoyed bestowing punishments upon him for the smallest of infractions. What made things worse was that he was the only Musketeer – recruit or fully-commissioned – to suffer under such scrutiny and punishment from the older man. 

After the first time, d’Artagnan never bothered to speak up about the negative attention, because when he had dared to try, his punishment had been doubled. Besides, as a low-ranking solder, when he had actually done something wrong he had no right to complain. 

Yet, as time went by, he felt there was no point saying anything at all, even when he was _not_ at fault. 

ooooooo 

_D’Artagnan had been taking advantage of being in between training sessions by going off to the latrine. While he technically should have gotten permission beforehand, being allowed to use the latrine without prior permission in between training sessions was something that was always tacitly allowed, though they were encouraged to come back as quickly as they could. He had just finished adjusting the stays on his pants when—  
_

_“Boy, shouldn’t you be with the other men assigned to work on their skills with a musket?”  
_

_Pointing towards the latrine, he replied, “Yes, I was just—”  
_

_“What you are just, Boy, is late. After you’re done with training for the day, you will help the stable boy with his chores. When he’s done for the night, that’s when you’ll be done. Clear?”  
_

_His first instinct was to argue the injustice of his punishment; instead d’Artagnan took a deep breath and released it slowly. “Very clear… Sir.”  
_

_He breathed a sigh of relief that he had just barely remembered to address the older man as “Sir,” recalling the first and last time he had dared to address Athos by name when on duty.  
_

_Much later that night, Aramis came into the stables, leading his horse. Upon seeing d’Artagnan, Aramis sighed.  
_

_“Punishment? Again?”  
_

_D’Artagnan nodded. “I wasn’t doing anything truly wrong. But, technically, I am in the wrong though it’s always been allowed in the past.”—He shrugged—“It’s not like I could argue.” Gesturing towards the shovel, he smirked before continuing, “Anyway, the punishment seems rather fitting.”  
_

_Aramis looked perplexed for a moment before an enlightened expression overtook the man’s face.  
_

_“He’s gone too far this time!” the marksman said loud enough to startle a couple of the horses, which turned their heads towards the disturbance.  
_

_D’Artagnan grabbed Aramis’s arm before the man could leave and presumably have words with Athos about the situation. “Leave it be. He just…”  
_

_“He just wants you to be as miserable as he is and that is just not right.”  
_

_“It’s fine.” A glance at Aramis’s expression had him revising his answer. “Well, it’s not fine.”—He shrugged one shoulder—“I was late – technically – so Athos was in the right. Besides, I’m fortunate he didn’t give me a worse punishment for not asking permission first.”  
_

_A frustrated sound burst from Aramis. “In the right! No one enforces that rule anymore.”  
_

_“Except Athos,” he said before grinning.  
_

_Aramis’s shoulders slumped and he returned the smile. “Are you sure?”  
_

_“Yes. Thank you, Aramis. I appreciate it.”  
_

_“You are welcome, d’Artagnan. Good night.”  
_

_He didn’t immediately return the sentiment, because in that moment d’Artagnan had just realized that he had, for the first time that day, heard his correct name.  
_

_Names had power, and hearing his at that moment made him feel content for the first time in far too long._

ooooooo 

One of the horses whinnying brought him out of his thoughts of the past. Mucking out the stable was one of Athos’s favorite punishments for him. It was either that or having to help the kitchen boy clean the dishes, pots, and pans for Serge. 

He finished his work and headed out of the stables towards his room. It had been a full day of being on duty guarding the King while His Majesty practiced his shooting out on the grounds of the palace. Being out in the sun on guard was tiring work despite the fact that he and his fellow Musketeers basically stood around all day. 

When he returned to the garrison, Athos had ordered him to muck out the stables, only saying that Jacques was ill before quickly striding away from him. 

Because of his extra duties in the stables, he had missed dinner, but he was exhausted enough to not feel hungry. When he got to his room, he quickly washed up, but barely had the energy after that to do anything other than remove his weapons and take his boots off. Lying down on the bed, he sighed in relief as his overtaxed body began to finally relax. 

As he fell asleep, he thought of happier days. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifteen: Training Day 

**ooooooo**

 

 **Story/History Notes :**

**_“Names have power.”_ : ** This chapter was inspired by a scene from the movie _Cinderella_ (2015), written by Chris Weitz and directed by Kenneth Branagh. “ _Cinderella. Names have power, like magic spells. And of a sudden, it seemed to her that her step-mother and step-sisters had indeed transformed her into merely a creature of ash and toil_.” – Fairy Godmother, played by Helena Bonham Carter. 

**ooooooo**

 .


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Training Day

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifteen: Training Day**

Ever since the four of them had returned to Paris, and Athos continued to make his dislike of him well-known, d’Artagnan had taken to standing out of Athos’s direct line of sight during muster. Often arriving at the very last moment, he would stand at the very back of the group of Musketeers gathered that morning. When the Captain would hand out assignments, he found himself hoping against hope that Aramis, Porthos, and especially Athos would have duties elsewhere. It felt so wrong to feel that way about them, but it was better than the pitying looks he kept receiving from Porthos and Aramis and the look of disdain that seemed to be a permanent expression on Athos’s face when looking at him. 

When Tréville called out three very familiar names and assigned them all to training with swords, d’Artagnan resigned himself to yet another day of being called Boy, failing to make a good showing, and doing his best to avoid having to spar with those men. Since Athos’s memory had been wiped clean of anything related to him, d’Artagnan did not find the joy in swordplay that he used to. Athos, as his mentor in the art of swordplay, had raised his level of skill quite considerably, and he greatly missed the mornings he had spent under the older man’s tutelage. 

Now, every time he picked up a sword in training, it reminded him of all that he had lost. The first time all four of them had been assigned together, Athos had publicly refused to cross blades with him. When Aramis and Porthos had barely begun to step forward and offer to pair up with him instead, Athos had intervened, making it perfectly clear he was to seek exercise with someone – anyone – else. At one point, he had seen Aramis, Athos, and Porthos huddled together, arguing without bothering to conceal they were doing otherwise. When the men broke apart and Porthos had started his way, d’Artagnan had subtly waved him off and sought someone else out to train with. Immediately seeking anyone who wasn’t an Inseparable to partner up with had regrettably become the norm. 

As he headed towards the practice field, d’Artagnan passed by the three older men who seemed to be at odds with each other. D’Artagnan hoped it had nothing to do with him, because he was tired of being miserable and causing such misery amongst men who used to be his closest friends. 

“Ask him. You’ll see,” Porthos said as he passed by them while making his way towards the practice field. 

He heard Athos scoff, which caused Aramis to interrupt whatever the other man might have said in reply. “Frankly, I’m offended that…” 

D’Artagnan had moved too far away to catch the rest of what Aramis had said to Athos. He mentally shrugged as he continued on his way. What the three men thought or did was unfortunately no longer any of his business. 

ooooooo 

His first match of the morning against Bujold ended in a draw, something that had never before happened. Usually, Bujold was one of the men d’Artagnan consistently beat when they sparred. 

However, as they had fought, d’Artagnan had caught sight of Athos watching his every move. Ever since they had returned to Paris, Athos had gone out of his way to not pay him any attention. It was completely unnerving for Athos to suddenly be so focused on him, and he kept paying for the distraction while sparring with Bujold, which lead to the draw. 

“Better luck next time, Boy,” Bujold had said as he walked away. 

While getting something to quench his thirst, he ran everything he had done wrong over in his mind. To his thinking, his faults were great and lacking any of the progress he had made since he had started on the path to become a Musketeer. 

When he turned back towards the practice area, he nearly ran straight into Athos. 

“My apologies, Sir,” he said and made to step around the older man. 

“You will spar with me,” Athos said, his words sounding equally like a request and a command. 

D’Artagnan was so surprised to hear those words from Athos that he accepted before his mind could even think to say no. The other man’s eyes still held no recognition of him; all he could hope was that he wouldn’t make too poor a showing against his mentor, therefore proving to Athos that he wasn’t fit to be a Musketeer. 

They drew their swords and saluted each other, each waiting for the other to make the first move. As before Athos’s memory loss, d’Artagnan usually made the first move, and this time was no exception. 

It wasn’t long before the familiarity of sparring against Athos drove out the occurrences of the past few weeks, making it feel like old times. They were doing their intricate dance across the courtyard, each parry and riposte seemingly erasing his memories of the weeks of animosity between them. 

If he wasn’t mistaken, Athos almost looked as if he was enjoying himself; d’Artagnan was definitely having fun – for the first time in far too long. He allowed himself to live in the moment and concentrated on his technique, bringing to the fore everything that Athos had ever taught him. 

Eventually, he saw an opening and was almost able to gain a hit on Athos. Athos stepped back from their session and looked at him with a strange expression on his face. It was a look d’Artagnan could not quite place now that Athos was acting so differently due to his memory loss. If he had to guess though, the expression was a combination of surprise, anger and betrayal, especially when the other man regarded his own sword. 

Athos’s face then hardened and, if possible, became even more closed off to him than ever before. A moment later, Athos stepped forward, indicating he was ready to continue their match. 

When they had first started sparring, they had been testing the waters, but this time Athos was on the attack, aggressive in a way d’Artagnan had never before experienced. At one point, he caught a glimpse of both Porthos and Aramis rising from the bench they were sitting on, their faces both lined with concern. 

Fighting Athos, for it could not be considered simple sparring any longer, was like fighting an enemy rather than a fellow brother-in-arms. D’Artagnan had no idea what he had done wrong and was worried Athos might actually do him harm if he was not careful about his defense. 

He was about to call a halt and step back when he countered a move that left their blades entangled with each other. The only way out of the situation that he knew of was a move that Athos had taught him, but before he could utilize the maneuver, Athos used it on him, managing to cut his forearm in the process. 

The shock from the sudden pain made him realize what he had done previously in order to make Athos attack him with such ferocity. D’Artagnan had used a maneuver that only Athos, and now d’Artagnan, could successfully utilize in a sword fight. Athos had obviously recognized that the Boy was using his knowledge against him, employing a move only the older man could’ve taught. It was a move that Athos had once confided he had never taught to anyone else, which at the time had given d’Artagnan a sense of belonging and a feeling of great accomplishment. That accomplishment had now come back to haunt him. 

The cut stung, but it was the look of pure satisfaction on Athos’s face when it had happened which truly hurt. Why did the older man hate him so much? 

Almost immediately, the look of satisfaction morphed to one of shock. “My apologies,” Athos said, bowing his head slightly before quickly walking away from the practice area. 

Aramis rushed up to him and gently grabbed his forearm in order to inspect the cut. Porthos, who had followed along, waited long enough to see that the wound was not serious before leaving, presumably to go after Athos. 

Meanwhile, Aramis had taken a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it around his forearm, applying pressure to the still-bleeding wound. 

“Stop fussing, Aramis. I’m fine,” d’Artagnan said, trying to pull away from the other man. 

Aramis kept a firm grasp on him, preventing his escape, and looked up from the wound to lock eyes with him. 

“Are you?” he asked. 

D’Artagnan honestly couldn’t think of how to answer the man. 

He had wanted to know if he and Athos could ever rebuild their previous friendship; it appeared that he now had his answer. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Sixteen: Last Chance 

**ooooooo**


	17. Chapter Sixteen: Last Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the introduction to the next phase of the story.

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Sixteen: Last Chance**

Much later, after everything had settled down and life got back to normal – or whatever passed for normal – d’Artagnan would look back upon their mission to Normandy, and consider it a combination of destiny, fate, and a miracle. It was a last-ditch effort by Tréville to keep his best squad of soldiers together, and in some respects, there was a certain inevitability about what happened.                   

However, at the beginning of their soon-to-be ill-fated mission, d’Artagnan was the perfect picture of abject misery. He saw no point in Tréville assigning him to this mission to the northwest when Athos was so dead set against it, if the loud voices coming from the Captain’s office were any indication. 

At this point, he was going through the motions of living. He did his duty, but there was no longer any joy in his life, no satisfaction in his work. He really had nowhere else to go; without his farm, the only thing he truly had left was his commission as a Musketeer. His only other realistic option was to resign his commission, leave Paris, and find a farm willing to hire him on. He still had the knowledge of how to work the land regardless of how little he had used that know-how since leaving Lupiac. 

Yet, he had still not taken that step as he remained convinced that life on a farm in any capacity was no longer for him. On the other hand, d’Artagnan now almost completely doubted his long-held desire to be a soldier. He had never dared to dream he would become a Musketeer, but he had done it. Now he wondered if being a soldier in the King’s regiment might not be for him either. 

Perhaps his true place was with the rank and file of the regular army or as a member of some city’s militia. The army had been good enough for his father; it should be more than good enough for him. He decided he would speak to Captain Tréville about a transfer as soon as he returned from their mission – now his last as a Musketeer. 

He remembered words he had spoken not that long ago: _I am still a Musketeer, despite what Athos may wish._ * It seemed this time Athos really would get his wish. 

Despite his best efforts to distance himself from them, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but turn his gaze from time to time towards the men he still thought of as friends. He had kept his promise as best he could to stay away and not cause dissention amongst the others even though it tore at his heart and soul, slowly ripping them both into pieces so small he didn’t think they could ever be put back together again. 

Athos had wholeheartedly repudiated him, yet Porthos and Aramis had repeatedly expressed their desire to remain friends. In attempting to do just that, he’d seen how much difficulty the two were having in carving out time to spend with him. They had been busy helping Athos to recover from his head injury and from being overwhelmed by his amnesia. So, no matter how much it hurt, he began to reject the friendship of the two men, thinking it was better they no longer had divided loyalties. 

Apparently, Porthos had been correct: Athos was indeed a different person before he came along. All of the man’s usual negative traits were exaggerated. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see a man heavily weighed down by guilt and self-recrimination. Before these past few weeks, d’Artagnan could count the number of times Athos had drunk to such excess on one hand. Since the injury, it was as if Athos was either attempting to elevate gluttony to the greatest of the seven deadly sins or trying to kill himself with the amount of alcohol he drank. 

From what he’d heard from other Musketeers, if it wasn’t the near alcohol poisoning on the truly bad nights, it was the fights that erupted due to Athos’s well-placed, caustic remarks. As a result of the excessive drink, Athos couldn’t defend himself quite as well and seemed to invite pain being visited upon him. It was a miracle Athos had managed to survive so many missions with such a lack of self-preservation. 

He had no idea if either Porthos or Aramis had informed Athos of the knowledge they had gained over the past year about their friend’s life before the Musketeers. If Athos was aware of how that past had not diminished his friends’ good opinion of the man, then it obviously hadn’t done any good. The Athos from before the amnesia had only begun to understand his value to others; with his memories gone, so were any gains in the man’s self-worth.  

Recently, on the bad days – which seemed to be almost every day – Athos invited the consequences of his negative disposition all upon himself with his actions. If d’Artagnan was in the vicinity, Athos would lay into him the worst. He’d never had someone speak to him with such venom in all his life, and never would have expected it from the man who used to be his friend, but he had been wrong again. 

Keeping up with Athos during times when his dark moods consumed him apparently was a full-time occupation, and that was when the man hadn’t been dealing with his amnesia. D’Artagnan’s presence seemed to provoke only negative reactions from Athos, and Aramis and Porthos really didn’t need any more stress in their lives, especially when dealing with Athos’s more self-destructive moods. Both Porthos and Aramis were more than capable of helping Athos and keeping watch over him. D’Artagnan found it much easier for everyone if he stayed completely away from all three men. 

If it weren’t for some of the other Musketeers, he would’ve lost his sanity long ago. Though friendly with many of the men, he had no particular friends amongst the rest of regiment, but they were more than aware of what was going on, and several had made an effort to be kind to him. It was difficult dealing with the pitying looks, but the little kindnesses sometimes visited upon him – such as a newly-repaired shirt being picked up from the seamstress and returned to him freshly laundered – were like lighthouse beacons against a backdrop of dense fog. They were rays of light against his dreary days. Those kindnesses kept him hanging on despite how lonely he now was. 

For the most part, and for as long as possible, Tréville had not involved himself with their problems, but it was clear to him that their Captain could not allow the discord to go on for much longer as it was distracting his Musketeers from properly doing their duty. He’d even overheard Serge talking to One-eyed Florian* about how the Captain had made an effort to get Athos to see reason and give d’Artagnan a chance, but to no avail. Athos was remaining hard-hearted and stubbornly against him. 

Now Captain Tréville was giving them their last chance to get their act together or d’Artagnan would face reassignment. The idea that he would be the one to be reassigned had not been explicitly said, but he couldn’t imagine the Captain ever intentionally splitting up his Inseparables. Ever since Athos had been well enough to go back on full duty, the four of them had been so far out of sync on the few, short missions they had been assigned, that it was only a matter of time before tragedy struck in one form or another. Hence, the mission they were being sent on to Normandy as the final attempt to see if they could continue working together despite Athos’s clear dislike of d’Artagnan. 

As they rode farther and farther away from Paris, d’Artagnan considered this mission to be the final confirmation he hadn’t really needed that he would be permanently reassigned elsewhere, which made his idea of a transfer to the regular army all the more justified in his mind. He thought it kind of Tréville to give them this last chance, but d’Artagnan was certain it was already much too late. 

Athos had wanted him gone from practically the first moment the man had clapped eyes on him. It wouldn’t be very much longer until Athos would be able to breathe easier knowing he was no longer a Musketeer. 

His former mentor hardly spoke a word to him that wasn’t an order or a reprimand. Athos also seemed to take it as a personal affront whenever either Porthos or Aramis spoke to or were kind to him in any way not related to the mission at hand. There had already been a couple of hushed disagreements amongst the three friends that he’d witnessed as a result. 

D’Artagnan felt guilty for being the cause of conflict between the three men who had been friends with each other for years before he came along. To keep himself out of Athos’s way, he rode at the back of their group and kept quiet, not responding to Aramis and Porthos’s attempts to engage him in conversation. He volunteered for as many of the chores that would allow him time away from Athos even though it still felt wrong for wanting to remain separate from a man he had once thought of as his best friend. 

His insomnia was plaguing him again, and each night he was ridiculously glad for the distraction of being “awakened” for his watch. Despite the diversion of being on watch, he found his thoughts constantly straying back towards the events of the past weeks, making his nights even longer and perpetuating his inability to sleep. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Seventeen: Disturbances 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**“ _I am still a Musketeer…_ ”:** Quoted from episode 1.10, _Musketeers Don’t Die Easily_ , written by Adrian Hodges. 

**_One-eyed Florian_ :** Mentioned in episode 1.09, “Knight Takes Queen” written by Peter McKenna.  

**ooooooo**


	18. Chapter Seventeen: Disturbances

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Seventeen:  Disturbances**

Though he was ostensibly with brothers-in-arms and friends, d’Artagnan felt utterly alone. To distract himself from his troubles as they rode northwest, he mentally reviewed the known details of their mission. 

Captain Tréville had explained that the palace had received word of raids on several villages in Normandy near the town of Ponteau de Mer* and along the mouth of the Seine. There were fears that the raiders were Englishmen from across La Manche* and that this was a precursor towards invasion, despite the two countries having a formal peace treaty with each other. 

The King insisted Tréville send some of his Musketeers to either confirm or refute the rumors of invasion, while getting to the bottom of and stopping the men who were committing the crimes. Tréville, in his continued efforts to bring some of his best men back into accord with each other, sent the four of them on the mission. 

At the time of the latest dispatch, three villages had been attacked with every expectation there would be more incidents. The raiders were quick and precise, and seemed to primarily go after food stores and money. So far, only three people had been killed with several others injured to varying degrees. 

Because he had been staying out of the way of the others as they planned the mission, d’Artagnan hadn’t been in a position to ask many questions or get a good look at the map of the area. However, since leaving on their five-day trip up north, he’d realized a couple of things were bothering him. 

The first was that one of the raids took place much closer to Honfleur* than to Ponteau de Mer. D’Artagnan could not recall the name of that village other than Saint…something*, but it struck him as odd that, while two of the attacks occurred much closer to Ponteau de Mer, this one was much further away by comparison.  

His consideration of the two villages nearer to Ponteau de Mer that had been attacked made him think of the other aspect that was bothering him. As far as he could recall from what little he had seen of the map in Tréville’s office, two of the three villages were essentially in a straight line and down the same road from each other; so why had the village in between them been spared thus far? Wouldn’t it be easier to just go down the line and attack one village after the other after the other? 

On the second night that they had made camp, d’Artagnan had tried to start a discussion about the finer details of their mission, but he had been thoroughly rebuffed by Athos. 

Not quite willing to give up so easily, he then asked to see the less-detailed copy of the map of the area that they had brought with them, which Athos had in his saddlebags. 

“May I please have a closer look at the map Tréville gave you?” 

“Why? Do you think we are lost?” Athos asked, sounding more than irritated that the Boy had dared ask him for anything. 

“What?! No!” d’Artagnan forced himself to calm down. “I merely wished to get to know the area. This is the first time I’ve been to this part of Normandy.” 

“Gascon farm boy,” Athos murmured, though d’Artagnan could easily hear the man. “I see no reason; it’s a fairly simple trip.” 

“Why not?” Porthos asked. “He’s just curious. Won’t harm anything to let him look.” 

“I have the first watch and he is after me,” Athos said, talking about him as if he were not there. “He should be getting some sleep, not looking at maps.” 

“Surely, a few minutes—” Porthos began, but d’Artagnan interrupted, not wanting another argument to occur because of him. 

“No. He’s right Porthos. I should get some sleep before my watch.” D’Artagnan couldn’t help the sigh that escaped before he continued. “Sir, I apologize for bothering you…again.” 

He made his way over to his bedroll, internally wincing at the mumbled addition of the word “again.” He hadn’t meant for it to escape, but he was tired both in body and mind and couldn’t help himself. 

Since that night, he hadn’t bothered to try and talk to any of his fellow Musketeers about the mission, seeing no point in causing anymore disturbances. If he still needed any proof that this was his last mission with the older men, then he needed to look no further than that exchange. 

ooooooo 

Five days after they had left Paris, the four Musketeers arrived in Ponteau de Mer. As they entered the town limits, Athos informed them that they would be heading directly to speak to the village’s mayor. At first, Aramis had argued for a short rest, but Athos refused to stop despite having suffered the second severe headache he’d had since leaving Paris the night before. 

D’Artagnan had been on watch the night before when he had heard a faint groan of pain from across the fire. Recognizing who had made the sound, and worried about Athos’s health, he had immediately gone to wake Aramis up. 

What d’Artagnan previously hadn’t known was that Athos had been suffering from severe headaches ever since he’d endured his head injury. Additionally, Athos had expressly forbidden the others from telling him about the migraines. According to Porthos, who had also been awakened by the commotion, Athos had felt that the headaches were not the business of a stranger. Aramis and Porthos had reluctantly agreed to the demand, not wanting the older man to shut them out and have no one to help him through his recovery. 

However, out on the road, it was not so easy to disguise such headaches and keep them a secret. The first d’Artagnan had been witness to had been a bad one, happening late in the night, only hours after he had asked after the map. It was bad enough that the pain had made Athos nauseated, eventually causing the man to vomit his dinner back up. 

At first, he’d tried to help Athos, but the older man refused to accept any sort of assistance from him. In fact, the very thought had presumably been enough to cause Athos even more pain. Aside from going to collect some cool water from the nearby stream so that Aramis could put a cold cloth on Athos’s forehead, he’d absented himself as much as possible from the three men. 

He kept up the watch and observed from a distance as Porthos and Aramis had tended to Athos.

At one point during that night, both Aramis and Porthos had each taken a break and kept him company for a while. They both apologized for any deceit surrounding the secret, but though d’Artagnan had accepted the apology, he hadn’t completely forgiven the two men. He understood the reason why, and felt it had probably been the best course of action at the time, but it still hurt how Aramis and Porthos had not bothered to give him the slightest inkling about what was going on. Even a hint would’ve been better than their ofttimes odd behavior as it pertained to Athos. 

When the two men were finally able to get Athos to sleep, Aramis had insisted on taking the watch from him and ordered him to get some rest. He thought the choice of wording interesting, and wondered if Aramis had noticed that his insomnia was giving him trouble again. His problem sleeping did indeed keep him from getting any more than a few minutes sleep here and there throughout the rest of that night due to the added stress of his worry for this new-to-him aspect of Athos’s condition. 

Just because he’d distanced himself from the three Musketeers, it did not mean that he had ceased to care about them. On the contrary, he worried about them all the more because he was not often present to see for himself how the men were faring on any given day. 

Athos’s latest rejection had hurt – as it always did – but he was used to it at that point. 

The previous night’s head pain had not been as severe, and d’Artagnan had again left the men alone after collecting some cool water for a compress. As before, he’d kept watch longer than originally planned, though he had ranged farther out than was probably advisable in order to give Athos the privacy the man evidently needed from him. 

He tried to ignore the hurt feelings within him, but like always, he was unsuccessful. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Eighteen: Investigation 

**ooooooo**

 

 **Story/History Notes :**

**_Ponteau de Mer_ :** Place name taken from a map of the Duchy of Normandy on pages 216-217 of my edition of the _Atlas Maior_ (See Chapter Four for the main note about the atlas.). For this section of the story, the village names I will be using will be a mix of how my atlas recorded the names and how they are referred to in modern times. In this case, I used the map version of the village’s name. The actual name is Pont-Audemer, which is situated along the river Risle and located in the Eure department of Normandy. 

**_La Manche_ :** Also known as the English Channel or The Channel. Translation from the French: “sleeve”. In my edition of the _Atlas Maior_ , various maps call the body of water between France and England “Oceanus Britannicus” or “La Manche”.  **  
**

**_Honfleur_ :** A city situated on the estuary where the Seine River meets the English Channel, and located in the Calvados department of Normandy. The spelling is the same today as it was in the _Atlas Maior_. 

**_Saint…something:_**   Refers to Saint Sauveur, which is located along the Seine. This is the name used in _Atlas Maior_ , and on my map La Rivière and Saint Sauveur are two distinct locales, but the current, actual name is La Rivière-Saint-Sauveur. Like Honfleur, it is also located in the Calvados department of Normandy. 

**ooooooo**


	19. Chapter Eighteen: Investigation

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Eighteen: Investigation**

In talking to Monsieur Vernet, the mayor of Ponteau de Mer, they discovered that two more villages* had been attacked since word had first reached Paris: Grestain* and Saint Sulpice.* 

The mayor had a map of the area on his wall, and this time around, d’Artagnan was able to get a good look at it. The attacks were obviously well-planned, but seemed to have been executed in a haphazard way. He truly did not understand the logic of the attacks, though something about them was niggling at the back of his mind. 

D’Artagnan tuned back into the conversation going on around him just as Athos had asked for the reason why it was Ponteau de Mer asking for help when the nearest attacks were close to half a day’s ride away from the town. Vernet had replied that they and Honfleur were the two largest towns in the area, and they were worried that the group might attack the more vulnerable outskirts of their communities. 

After a few more questions, it was clear the mayor knew nothing substantial about the other villages or the raids, and was more concerned about his own people’s welfare, which d’Artagnan could not entirely fault. The next morning, the four of them would need to continue on towards the villages that been attacked in order to gain more valuable intelligence. Now that they were in an area with so many villages relatively close by, they could take advantage of sleeping in inns instead of out in the open. 

That evening, they discussed their plans while eating their dinner at L’Écureuil Roux* with funds generously provided by Mayor Vernet as an apology for not being able to host a dinner for them. His eldest daughter was to be married the next day, and the man still had much to do before the ceremony. 

With the added information, they had debated what avenues of investigation they would pursue next aside from visiting the villages that had been attacked. Or rather, the three older men talked and he listened, not wanting to cause any problems by daring to speak up. 

As he listened, he couldn’t bring himself to eat much, the continued lack of any decent sleep now affecting his appetite, making it almost non-existent. Instead, using a piece of the bread that had come with their meal, he clumsily created a basic map of the area using tiny, torn-off bits he had rolled into little balls of dough. Something about the locations that had been hit still bothered him, but he hadn’t yet figured out why. 

One issue discussed during the conversation managed to temporarily distract him from his doughy map and got him thinking. How had the raiders known where the villages had kept their food stores or where there was a ready sum of coins to be had? If it was only one group of men, then it was logical they were being given inside knowledge. What if the collaborator was not a resident of any of the targeted villages? 

From the reports Captain Tréville had received, of the three villages that had been attacked before they had left Paris, it was only in Foulebec* where the raiders had needed to force the citizens of the town to tell them where the food and coin were to be found.  It was in that locale where two of the three people had been killed. 

D’Artagnan had begun to think there was a collaborator who might even be a traveler, or one of a group of travelers of some kind, perhaps traders selling their wares. It was the best explanation he could come up with, and he was about to bring that fact up to the others, when Athos announced the very same idea. Feeling superfluous to the discussion, he went back to his “map,” hoping it would help him figure out what was bothering him. 

God only knew how long later, a hand clapped his shoulder, bringing his attention back to the present. He looked at Porthos, whose eyes slid to the left, and he shifted his attention to the other men across the table. Athos’s expression perfectly reflected the man’s anger. 

“If you are going to just sit there and play with your food instead of paying attention to our plans for the next couple of days, then I suggest you find something else that _will_ hold your interest.”—Athos began pouring some wine into a cup—“Someone needs to check on the horses before the night is over.” 

Feeling ashamed at being scolded in such a way, d’Artagnan scattered the bits of his doughy “map” and stood up from the table. He grabbed a couple of apples from the bowl in the middle of the table and left without saying a word. He thought he heard Porthos raise his voice, perhaps in protest, but he couldn’t hear what was being said and frankly didn’t care any longer. 

ooooooo 

The next day they planned to ride towards Toutainville,* the first village that had been attacked. 

When they were gearing up, Porthos attempted to speak to him, but he just smiled the best of his false smiles and led his horse out of the inn’s stables. 

After he’d gone off to see to the horses the previous night, d’Artagnan had ended up not going back to his room for many hours. He also no longer felt much disappointment at neither Aramis nor Porthos coming to look for him, believing Athos needed them more than he did. 

Athos unreservedly refused to room with him unless there was no choice in the matter, and even then the man wasn’t satisfied until d’Artagnan bedded down as far away as possible. He was to switch between rooming with Porthos and Aramis, and from night to night, he never knew who he would be sharing with or even if he’d have a roommate at all. 

When he had finally returned to his room, it appeared no one had been there, so he just assumed his roommate for the night had been fortunate enough to find company with a willing lady and hoped Athos had not suffered another severe headache. 

Insomnia had ensured he didn’t get a restful night. Long before daybreak, he went back out to the stables where he spent a lot of time meticulously grooming their four horses. When Porthos had entered the stables, d’Artagnan had already been ready for the day, just finishing tacking up the last of their horses. For a time, he’d hesitated at touching Athos’s gear and horse, but decided to risk the other man’s ire in hopes the older man would simply assume a stable boy had taken care of things. 

The roads were mostly dry so they made good time to Toutainville. The village’s head man, Vuillard, had in great detail – likely greatly embellished – shared what had happened the night his people had been attacked. One piece of information struck d’Artagnan as important: the raiders had headed north when they left. At least now they had something of a clue to the raiders’ whereabouts; unless the men had doubled back, then the looters might have a home base of sorts somewhere in that direction. 

It was still early enough in the day that they moved on toward Saint Sulpice to see if they could glean anything useful from the village that had been attacked most recently. 

Porthos and Aramis had started bantering back and forth as they rode north; d’Artagnan listened with a heavy heart for a time before turning his mind back to the problem he had with the raids. 

Why initially skip Saint Sulpice and go all the way northwest to Saint Sauveur instead of attacking the villages in order? The only answer he could determine was that the men were avoiding detection and capture. But what if they were hiding something else? He was getting the sense that the latter was closer to the truth of the matter. 

Between Honfleur and Ponteau de Mer, there were nine separate villages.* As far as he was aware, there were still four that had not yet been attacked. The marauders had been going up and down the coasts of the Risle and the Seine skipping whole clusters of villages then going back south to attack one and…then… 

Suddenly, d’Artagnan knew exactly what was bothering him. The raiders were attacking in such a haphazard way in order to hide that they lived in one of the villages that had not yet been attacked. He didn’t know why, but he was as certain of that fact as he was that the sun would rise in the mornings. 

Now all he had to do was convince the other Musketeers of his theory. D’Artagnan thought the attempt just might rival the stories of the labors of Hercules his father used to recount when he was a child. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Nineteen: Attacked 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**_Villages_ : ** All of the village names in this chapter were taken from a map of the Duchy of Normandy on pages 216-217 of my edition of the _Atlas Maior_ (See Chapter Four for the main note about the atlas.). For the distances between the villages, I used the map’s scale.  

**_Grestain_ : **The modern name of the village is Fatouville-Grestain, but on my map (see above note) these are two separate villages. Located in the Eure department of Normandy. 

**_Saint Sulpice_ : ** Only using part of the village’s actual name for this story, which is Saint-Sulpice-de-Grimbouville.  On my map (see first note above), the village name is spelled: Saint _Supplis_. I must admit finding the actual name was a bit of a challenge – lol! Until 1991, Grimbouville was spelled a bit differently, with an additional “a” – Gr **a** imbouville.  Located in the Eure department of Normandy. 

**_L’Écureuil Roux_ :  **Translation is “The Red Squirrel”. 

**_Foulebec_ : **This is the spelling from my map (see first note above). The village’s actual name is spelled without the “e” – Foulbec. Located in the Eure department of Normandy. 

**_Toutainville_ : ** In this case, the spelling is the same on my map (see first note above) and on today’s maps. Located in the Eure department of Normandy. 

**_“Between Honfleur and Ponteau de Mer, there were nine separate villages_**.”:  My map (see first note above) shows a tenth, unidentified village. For the purposes of this story, I’m making it the village and city outskirts of what is today known as Pont-Audemer (called Ponteau de Mer in this story). 

**ooooooo**


	20. Chapter Nineteen: Attacked

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Nineteen: Attacked**

Thinking he would have better luck if the other men were not hungry or choking on dust their horses had kicked up, d’Artagnan decided to wait until they had stopped for the night in order to convince the others of his thoughts regarding where the raiders may reside. This would also give him time to come up with counterarguments to the older men’s – and especially Athos’s – doubts about his theory. He wanted to keep a relative peace going amongst them, but also didn’t want to be dismissed out of hand. 

He mentally reviewed the map of the area, and could now see there was a pattern of sorts to the attacks. One nearer to Ponteau de Mer followed several days later by one closer to Honfleur and then back again. Surely the men had to know that someone might figure out the pattern and perhaps even figure out which village they were from? 

Or were the raiders simply confident they would not be caught? The numbers of men reported for each raid ranged from seven to fifteen attackers, though he believed the mayor of Toutainville might have been exaggerating slightly when he said that there had been fifteen men. 

Perhaps the perpetrators did not care if they were caught? Perhaps they and their village were desperate for food or money to buy food? He couldn’t recall if he’d yet heard anything about crops failing in any of the villages, but it was certainly a possibility and something that might be worth following up on once he convinced the others about his theory. 

When they spoke to the mayor of Saint Sulpice, much of what they had already known was confirmed. The number of men in the raid was seven or eight, instead of the dozens the mayor of Toutainville had implied, and they headed north after taking as much food as they could with them. He could tell that Athos was irritated by the lack of any new information, and attempted to remain out of the man’s way as much as possible. He was not in the mood to be verbally attacked by the older Musketeer. 

At this point, it was after midday and they could either continue on to Foulebec or stay in Saint Sulpice overnight. D’Artagnan let the others debate the merits of staying versus going, choosing to not voice an opinion that would ultimately be unwelcome. 

Athos’s frustration about the mission prevented him from attempting to share his theory with the others during the small meal they partook of after meeting with the mayor. He thought about approaching either Aramis or Porthos, but elected to wait, hoping he wouldn’t regret his choice. 

In the end, it was decided they would continue on to Foulebec because it was a relatively easy distance to travel. They also agreed to leave any further investigating until the next morning. 

As they rode away from Saint Sulpice, he made a mental list of the villages that had yet to be attacked, and got the impression the marauders were from one of locales along the Seine instead of the last one along the Risle. 

Perhaps he would get a chance during dinner to inform the others of his idea that the raiders were relatively local to the area. D’Artagnan just hoped that Athos would be mellow enough from the wine consumed at the evening meal for him to be open to listening to his theories. 

When they were suddenly attacked from the north by a semi-ragged group of eight men, two things immediately came to d’Artagnan’s mind. 

The first was that it seemed their theory of a collaborator was indeed correct. How else would the raiders know about them or their current location? 

The other thing he thought as he fired his pistol at one of the men, and missed, was how this skirmish seemed to be so similar to the one the day Athos had been shot in the head. On their horses, being ambushed and shot at by numbers greater than their own, was a situation far too close for comfort after what had happened the last time. 

Except this time, when Athos was in danger, he was in a position to do something about it. 

At first, he was defending himself against two men who attacked him with a desperate fervor he’d rarely seen before. If his theory was correct, then he could understand why the men attacked: the men simply wanted to protect their loved ones from severe privation. However, the way the raiders were going about it was absolutely wrong and they had to be stopped. These men had sealed their own fates, but perhaps their village could still be saved. 

In fighting the two men that had attacked him, he had managed to fell one of them with a hard blow to the head. It was only the work of perhaps another minute, while covering a fair amount of ground while fighting, before he finished off his other opponent. 

He surveyed the area to see if any of the others needed his help. It was then when he spotted the man he had thought he had put down for the count with a head wound pointing a gun towards Athos’s unprotected back. 

Last time Athos was in such danger, he had been in no position to do anything about it, because everything had happened much too quickly. This time he had a chance and could do something. 

Time slowed to a crawl as he quickly evaluated his limited options. His skirmish with his other opponent had put him in a position that was roughly equidistant between the gunman and Athos. 

As far as he could determine in so short a time, and with his pistol spent, d’Artagnan knew he really only had two choices. He could either tackle the gunman, taking the risk of the pistol firing and injuring one of his fellow Musketeers, or he could tackle Athos and hope neither of them was hit when the raider’s pistol was discharged.  

Once he’d made his decision, time seemed to speed forward again, and he was running towards the only option he could ever have chosen. In moments, he was nearly there, having run as fast as he was able. 

The sound of a pistol firing filled his ears, but he didn’t dare look for fear of losing sight of what he knew he had to do. He now had only seconds to prevent Athos from getting shot in the back. 

Someone called out Athos’s name as he ran, causing the older man to turn towards him in the seconds before he was about to make contact. 

Just as he reached Athos and collided with him, the two of them beginning to fall to the ground, d’Artagnan felt an excruciating pain erupt in his back. 

As the ground came rushing up to meet him, so too did the darkness. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Twenty: The Boy 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  Sorry about the cliffhanger, and the fact that it won’t immediately be resolved. Does it help to know that the next chapter is the longest one so far?   
> .


	21. Chapter Twenty: The Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: One of the characters in this chapter has suicidal thoughts – only thoughts. 
> 
> Little bit of a change in this chapter…  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty: The Boy**    

As he rode at the head of their group towards Foulebec, Athos lowered the brim of his hat to better shield his eyes from the bright sun, hoping to prevent his slight headache from becoming something much worse. He was not up to dealing with yet another migraine so soon after the last. 

As much as he might want otherwise, his thoughts kept straying towards the Boy. When he’d scolded the Boy for not paying attention in that tavern in Ponteau de Mer, he’d felt guilt afterwards for how he’d treated the younger man. It was a more recent trend that challenged his stubborn refusal to get to know the other Musketeer. 

It hadn’t been the first time he’d felt something close to remorse for his actions against the young man since he’d awakened to discover a world where too many months had gone by without him being able to remember a single minute of it. The first instance had been the day that he and the Boy had sparred for the first and last time. When Captain Tréville had assigned him, Porthos, and Aramis to training with swords alongside the Boy, Athos had mentally cursed a blue streak, but he had known there was nothing to be done about the assignment. 

Waiting to take their turns out on the practice field, Porthos and Aramis had tried to convince him that he’d been the Boy’s mentor in the art of swordplay, and that the younger man was now one of the best in the regiment. He’d scoffed at the idea, but had been curious enough to watch the Boy while he sparred with Bujold. What he’d seen had not done much to convince him of his friends’ assertions, but he’d recognized something in the Boy’s style which had prompted him to challenge the Gascon. 

Admittedly, when the accident had happened, he had not been following his own advice about not letting emotion rule over his actions. He had been so satisfied with defeating the Boy, using a move that any protégé of his should have been capable of defending, that he’d not immediately recognized he had hurt his opponent. When he _had_ realized, he had instantly regretted his aggression during the fight and doing the other man harm, actually apologizing to the Boy. Athos had never intended to hurt the younger man regardless of his dislike of him. 

To say that Porthos and Aramis had been angry with him for what he’d done was an understatement, though these days irritated seemed to be their default with him. It was a rare occurrence when they weren’t giving him grief for something he had said or done recently. Most of the time, he tuned them out when they brought up anything to do with the Boy and had become exceptionally talented at ignoring them as of late. 

Other than the fact that he was a Musketeer and therefore a brother-in-arms, Athos couldn’t understand why his closest friends cared so much about the Boy. He couldn’t understand why Aramis and Porthos seemed so intent on getting him to accept the Boy as part of their team.  

The first face he’d seen when he had awakened to a strange new world with a headache of epic proportions had been that of the Boy’s. While his vision had been clearing, he’d momentarily thought the younger man sitting by his bedside had been his brother, Thomas. 

For that all too-brief amount of time, he had forgotten his younger brother had been murdered. He had forgotten about the blood dripping from Anne’s hands. He’d forgotten about Catherine’s scream as well as his wife begging for mercy. He had forgotten he’d executed his wife. For those few moments, he had felt contentment.  

But then the face in front of him had snapped into focus, and he’d realized the dark hair and dark eyes had not belonged to his brother. The fact that the brother he’d failed to protect had been murdered had come back to him like a crashing wave, bringing with it a surge of pain in his head. Nearly unbearable pain, along with guilt-and-shame inducing memories he wished he could erase from his mind, and the extreme disappointment it had not actually been his brother at his bedside, combined to create an instant dislike and distrust of a stranger that had been so delighted and relieved to see him awake. 

Since that day, he had done everything in his power to keep the Boy at arms’ length. He had done everything he could to disentangle his friends from the young man who had dared to attempt to ingratiate himself to the Inseparables, but they refused to give in, remaining steadfast in their support of the Boy. While he admired Aramis and Porthos for that, he was perfectly happy to be one of three and had no interest in admitting a fourth to their squad. 

He knew he wasn’t giving the young man a fair chance, and that he was essentially punishing the Boy for not being his brother while blaming him for his current situation. Porthos and Aramis had tried to get him to listen to them regarding the Boy, but he had refused. They had told him that he was not acting like the man they had become friends with, but he couldn’t seem to care that his behavior had changed. Because of those first waking moments, he simply couldn’t bear to be in the Gascon’s presence without being reminded of how much of a failure he had been as brother, husband, and comte. If, according to Aramis, that made him mumpsimus* then so be it. 

When he had first joined the Musketeers, he had eschewed all of his fellow brothers-in-arms, keeping alcohol as his closest, dearest companion. He had yet to fail his supply of wine, nor it, him. 

He had definitely not wanted to make any friends and risk failing them too. Instead, he had been perfectly happy to do his duty before attempting to make a dent in the city’s wine supply when off duty. The only variety in his schedule was the location where he drank – either in a dark corner of a tavern or in the privacy of his own barren room. He hadn’t wanted either Porthos or Aramis in his life aside from being their fellow Musketeer, but they had managed to slowly tear his walls down enough to become his friends. Despite not being the ideal friend to them, he couldn’t seem to shake to the two men. 

Joining the Musketeers had been equal parts penance for his numerous failures and a desire to see an end to his miserable life through more honorable means. Nightly over-indulgence in alcohol had helped keep his nightmares at bay while he waited for the inevitable. He’d been a failure at everything else; didn’t it follow that he would fail at being a soldier? 

Instead, he had become a failure at meeting a much-desired and much-deserved end to his life. Aramis and Porthos had been rather persistent in wanting to get to know him at a time when he had neither needed nor wanted friends. Aside from his two friends and Tréville, he didn’t think he needed any others in his life. They had made him promise to never actively seek death after a particularly bad mission that had left him half dead protecting his friends without regard to his own life. Promise or not, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t gladly accept death for the sins he had committed in his former life. It may have been his duty, and it may have been according to the law, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t left a stain on his soul that was in any way easy to live with. 

Tréville, Porthos, and Aramis… They were more than he’d ever thought he would have again in his life. They are his brothers-in-arms, friends and brothers of the heart.  No one else need apply. 

Yet, those three men had said that the Boy was also a cherished friend, that he’d allowed someone else passed his walls. According to them, the Gascon considered him his best friend and mentor. He simply couldn’t picture it, and received a severe migraine when he had tried to do so. 

In fact, the Boy was the cause of most of his headaches – both literally and figuratively – since he had awakened without his memories of the past.  He took it as a sign that he wasn’t meant to let the Boy in a second time – if indeed there had been a first time. 

He hadn’t admitted this to his two friends, but they had probably guessed it anyway.  The abyss that had been created in his memories was something he despised and feared in equal measure. Nothing more than feelings of familiarity had come back to him in the weeks since his injury. Things had changed at the garrison: people he had served with had died; new recruits had come along and had gained their commissions; and he had been promoted. For the most part, the men were patient with his condition, but at the same time, it grated on his nerves to be an object of pity. 

What frightened him most was that he had no idea what more of his life had been revealed to his friends. He had inquired about the missing time, but was certain they were skipping details they felt he wouldn’t be able to cope with. At times, from the way they acted, he was certain Porthos and Aramis knew things they shouldn’t, but he couldn’t be sure what exactly they knew. He was reluctant to ask for more detail for fear of giving something away he didn’t want anyone else to know about. However, if they wouldn’t tell him the whole truth about the past couple of years, then anything they said about his supposed friend, this Boy from Gascony, was circumspect. Athos didn’t believe they were lying, but instead thought they were definitely exaggerating the truth. 

Aramis and Porthos had explained that they thought it best he remembered on his own about the missing time. Yet, he felt there was something more to it than that, something that sent a chill down his spine at odd times whenever he considered his past. Every second of every day he was aware that something was missing and sometimes dreaded the unknown. He hated it more than he thought he would considering his failed former life as a comte, especially after spending years wishing he could forget those years.  

He was apprehensive about what his friends might have learned of his past life, and wondered if as his supposed friend, the Boy knew any of it. That Porthos and Aramis knew something was one thing, but it vexed him to no end that the Boy, a stranger to him, had knowledge of him that he did not currently have due to his memory loss. 

The whole situation frustrated him beyond his endurance at times, and more often than not, he took to drink or took it out on the Boy – or both. At first, he enjoyed it, and then it simply became a habit to treat the younger man so poorly. He knew it was wrong of him to do thusly, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. His mind rebelled, sometimes even causing him severe pain, against any attempts to accept the Boy as anything more than a source of annoyance. Normally, he had no difficulty in accepting other Musketeers as brothers-in-arms, even if they did not become more than acquaintances to him, but something within him would not allow that smallest of steps in regards to the Gascon. 

After a spike of pain briefly seared through his right eye, warning him that his slight headache might turn into a migraine, Athos attempted to turn his mind away from the Boy and towards the mission Tréville had sent them on. He was not blind to his Captain’s efforts to get him to give the Boy another chance. The Captain, along with Aramis and Porthos, had been extolling the younger man’s virtues for weeks, and he couldn’t help but wonder how exaggerated they were, especially after the short missions they’d been assigned together. 

Tréville even quoted something to him that he had supposedly once said about the Gascon: _D’Artagnan has it in him to be a fine Musketeer, perhaps the greatest of us all_.* He couldn’t comprehend giving such praise to someone, and could not fathom that the description of “greatest” ever fitting anyone but Tréville. 

The older man had quite literally picked him up from the gutter, and had dared him to do something better with his life besides getting blindingly drunk every day. He’d only considered the idea because the thought had entered into his mind that, through the Musketeers, he could find a more honorable death than one from choking on his own vomit. Over time, he’d come to respect his Captain, but in this case, he still couldn’t seem to accept anything the man had been saying about the Boy. 

The young man obviously had some amount of talent as a soldier if he’d not served in the guards or regular army first before becoming a Musketeer. However, aside from some skill with a blade, he couldn’t see there was anything special about the Gascon.  

Thus far on their mission, he had suffered two severe migraines, alerting the Boy to the fact that he was still being plagued by the aftereffects of his head injury. Athos had not wanted the Boy to know something so personal or to show any weakness, but he’d not been able to hide his pain from the younger man for very long out on the road. Thankfully, the Boy had kept his distance and had not pretended to care or tried to help attend him. 

Both migraines had left him lethargic and exhausted from being in such pain for seemingly hours on end. They had also left his thoughts muddled due to the random pieces of memory which had flashed through his mind yet refused to coalesce into something recognizable. Most likely the confusing flashes were his lost memories. They taunted him, hinting of their continued existence before they faded away into the deepest recesses of his mind and once again taking away his hope he would ever get them back. 

In many of the confusing images, he thought he had caught glimpses of the Boy, but he could not be certain. When he tried to concentrate on any of the images trying to break free, his head only ached all the more, which prompted him to stop trying all together. 

Aside from the rare bout of dizziness, the migraines and his recovery from them had made it more difficult than usual for him to get a good grasp on the mission that they had been sent on. They had gained enough details for him to come to the conclusion in that tavern that there was at least one, maybe more, collaborators or informants aiding the raiders. From the Boy’s expression when he’d announced his theory, he was certain the younger man must also have come to the same conclusion. Athos did not understand why the information had not been shared with them, but as he had no proof, could not reprimand the Boy for the breach. 

In his mind, it had been just another reason why the Gascon should be assigned elsewhere. Regardless of the unrest between the four of them, Athos expected them to work as a unified group. However, it was now obvious that the young man was unwilling to put his head over his heart in this matter. He was now more determined than ever that, when this mission was over, the Boy would no longer be part of their squad. 

Yet, why wasn’t he happier about his decision? 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Twenty-one: Attacked Redux 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**_Mumpsimus_ :**   Adherence to, or persistence in, an erroneous use of language, practice, belief, etc., out of habit or obstinacy. A person who persists in a mistaken expression or practice. Originally, it was a noun denoting an incorrigible, dogmatic old pendant. I came across this word in a book called “Forgotten English” by Jeffrey Kacirk (1997; pgs. 86-87). I immediately thought of Athos when I read it, so I was happy I could incorporate the word into this story. 

**“ _D’Artagnan has it in him to be a fine Musketeer…_.”:** Quoted from episode 1.08, The Challenge, written by Susie Conklin.   

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering how I left the last chapter, I thought a change in point of view might be needed… Apologies for not resolving the cliffhanger. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1040 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	22. Chapter Twenty-one: Attacked Redux

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty-one: Attacked Redux**

On the heels of making the decision to ask for the Boy to be assigned elsewhere, Athos had felt fresh anger well up within him when he realized the younger man was incapable of remaining focused on their planning session. In fact, it looked as if the Boy had instead been playing with his food, lining up bits of bread into a vague L-shape. 

As Porthos and Aramis were talking, he observed the Boy contemplating his shredded, balled-up bread and rolling some of the pieces around. He thought one of the patterns the Boy made seemed familiar but he couldn’t figure out how. 

The Gascon had been quiet throughout the day, and seemed happy to be in his own world rather than bringing anything to the table which could aid in their investigation, as with the idea of a collaborator. 

How did the Gascon expect to remain a Musketeer if he did not take all aspects of the job seriously? What if the Boy’s inattention caused one of his friends to be wounded? 

Athos would not let that happen if he could prevent it. He had so few people in his life that he cared about; there was no way he would let this incompetent, young one be the reason any of them were injured or killed. 

Porthos must have noticed something about his countenance, because his friend began trying to get the Boy’s attention, quietly calling the young man’s name a couple of times before laying a hand on his shoulder. This lack of attention to his surroundings was yet another reason why the Boy did not seem to merit the title of Musketeer. 

The young Gascon had startled slightly before meeting his eyes. He scolded the Boy for his lack of attention and “suggested” he look after the horses. At least in the stables the younger man could do some good. 

After the Boy had gone, he’d begun to feel a certain amount of guilt for how harsh he had been. However, he had barely had any time to wonder why his actions against the younger man were bothering him when suddenly a shock of pain shot through his head like a bolt of lightning. The next time Athos was truly aware, he was lying down in his room with Porthos and Aramis looking down at him with barely concealed worry on their faces. 

This time there had been no teases or glimpses, but rather clear images of the Boy. Without context, he could not hope to understand what he was…was… 

_Remembering_. 

That word entering into his mind was a revelation. He must be remembering – or trying to remember – his past. 

For some reason, which he refused to think about any further, d’Artagnan had figured prominently in many of those fragments of memory. They were still unclear, still incomplete, yet trying to come to the fore of his mind. 

This latest migraine gave him hope that he would someday remember his missing past, and he felt the pain might just be worth having his memories finally returned to him. And given how many of those glimpses had featured the Boy, d’Artagnan just might have been a more significant part of his past than he had originally thought or wanted to believe. 

As sleep took him away from the lingering pain in his head, a fleeting thought entered his mind: Maybe his friends had not been exaggerating in their tales about the Boy after all. 

ooooooo 

Aramis and Porthos had kept watch over him for the duration of the night, and he was inordinately grateful they continued to help him despite his continued dislike of the Boy. When morning came, Aramis convinced him to eat something despite not being hungry, while Porthos saw to their departure. 

When he’d entered the stables, all four of their horses were tacked up and ready to go. He checked his tack, always leery of how attentive – or rather inattentive – the local stable boys might be to their jobs. Finding everything exactly as he preferred, Athos presumed the Boy must have tacked up their horses. Porthos had not been outside long enough, and d’Artagnan looked as if were trying to fade into the background around him more so than usual. 

Briefly, he considered saying something, but in the end, decided to keep quiet, remembering the feeling of regret for rebuking the younger man the previous night. The Boy looked exhausted and he himself was definitely fatigued; he saw no reason to start something so early in the morning over something that ultimately was a kindness to him. 

In Toutainville, Mayor Vuillard seemed only to want to impress Musketeers rather than truthfully relaying what he needed to know about the raid and the perpetrators behind it. Having finished their business there in less time than he’d originally planned, Athos believed it was a good idea to continue on towards Saint Sulpice. Perhaps that village’s head man would provide better information. 

When they spoke to the mayor of Saint Sulpice, they learned nothing new, which greatly frustrated him. Plus, he got the distinct impression that something new was going on with the Boy; that he was waiting for something to occur, which only increased his level of frustration. 

Because of this, he made the suggestion to continue on to Foulebec, more than ready to have this mission completed and return to Paris so that the Boy would finally be assigned elsewhere. After some discussion amongst themselves, during which the Boy kept his opinions to himself, they decided to travel onward towards Foulebec. Because they would be arriving fairly late in the day, they would leave any further investigation for the morrow. 

The regular motion of the horse’s gait lulled him into thinking inwards once more. He reviewed what they knew so far and felt the answer was on the tip of his tongue. The answer was there, but he just could not see it yet. Granted, he’d been indisposed with his bothersome head— 

The sound of pistol fire made him flinch, and on reflex, he grabbed his own pistol as he dismounted from his horse. Firing at one of the eight men that came towards the four of them, their attackers ducked and managed to not get hit. Angered that his shot had not helped in culling the numbers of their foes, he flipped his gun and caught the barrel, ready to use it as a bludgeon alongside his sword, which he drew from his scabbard. 

As his opponent approached, he quickly surveyed the field of battle. Aramis had managed to shoot and hopefully kill one of the men, and was now fighting with his rapier against another. Both Porthos and d’Artagnan were each fighting two men apiece. He knew Porthos could handle two men at once, but was less confident in the Boy’s abilities. There was nothing he could do for the moment but to fight an approaching opponent who had a slightly-crazed and desperate look upon his face. 

His opponent actually provided more of a challenge than one would think, given the man’s raggedy appearance. Some of his foe’s moves led him to suspect the man may once have been in the military, though likely a regular and not a Musketeer or Red Guard. In the end, his adversary was no match for him and his skill with a rapier. Athos dispatched the man with a single slice to the unprotected jugular after an uncoordinated and unsuccessful swing of a sword towards legs. 

Not even bothering to dwell on the man’s shocked expression as he fell to the ground, Athos quickly glanced around the immediate area. Aramis had a look on his face which told him that his adversary was not long for this world. Porthos was still engaged in fighting two men, and he was just about to go lend his support, when he heard his name being shouted. 

His first thought was to be annoyed by the distraction, but Athos turned towards the Boy in the event he was needed. He would not let any Musketeer, regardless of who they were, go without aid if he could help it. 

Time suddenly slowed, which somehow allowed several things to happen simultaneously. The Boy was running full tilt towards him with a look on his face that was equal parts determination and fear. In the same moment, he heard a pistol fire. And finally, the Boy ran right at him and collided with him. As they fell, he heard a grunt of pain, but the reason why that was important flew out of his mind the moment they hit the hard ground, the Boy landing on top of him and forcing his breath out of his lungs at the impact.   

Athos lost focus for a moment as it took his body a few moments to remember how to breathe once again and he registered various aches and pains. His lungs working once more, Athos became annoyed that the Boy had yet to move off of him. Did the younger man not realize that Porthos needed help? 

He called the Boy’s name and lightly pushed at the younger man’s shoulder, but the body atop him continued to pin him down. 

That’s when he realized d’Artagnan was not being idle at all, but was actually dead weight. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Twenty-two: The Flood 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger.
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	23. Chapter Twenty-two: The Flood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that I'm not a medical professional. Apologies for any inaccuracies.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty-two: The Flood**

Athos shifted slightly in order to move the Boy off of him, but when he tried to grab the back of the Gascon’s doublet, his hand slipped and skimmed along the leather instead. Thinking it odd, he brought his hand up to his line of sight and saw that blood was coating the fingers of his gloves. 

Suddenly, and accompanied with a brief surge of pain in his head, images began to flood his mind. His once-missing past started dropping back into place, filling the gaps in his memory. 

Sadly, the first images that thrust themselves to the very forefront of his mind were of a singular sequence of events that he would rather have remained absent from his recollection. 

It was dark, and there was a spent pistol in his hand. He could hear someone say, “ _You fool!_ *,” and belatedly realized he was the one who had spoken. The Boy… _D’Artagnan_ is grabbing at his side, his legs folding as Tréville catches him and lowers the young man to the ground. Porthos is begging d’Artagnan to remain awake, but it is the sight of the blood on Aramis’s fingers and the sight of his friend losing consciousness, which has been the source of many of his nightmares since that night. 

More images of his forgotten past, and d’Artagnan’s part in it, flooded his mind in rapid succession, ending with the grunt of pain he’d heard just moments ago. Panic suddenly flooded through him, and he used d’Artagnan’s proper name for the first time in far too long. 

“D’Artagnan?!”  Athos said, the single word felt foreign on his tongue as he demanded a response from the wounded man in his arms. 

Not getting one, Athos resumed carefully, as if he were handling a newborn babe, rolling the younger man over and off of him. When he pulled his hand out from under his unconscious friend, there was an alarming amount of blood coating his gloved fingers. 

“Aramis!” 

Athos yelled for Aramis, not once considering what calling attention to the both of them during a skirmish could mean for their well-being. He had no idea whether or not there were still any men left to fight; he had not even thought to check once the memories had started slamming into him, memories which allowed him to remember the man who he had so recently forgotten was a brother. 

He carefully turned d’Artagnan partially onto his side to look more closely for a wound. A red stain was steadily growing on the doublet, low on the younger man’s back. If the bullet had hit the Gascon’s kidney or transected a major blood vessel, then there would be no hope of survival. D’Artagnan would die without ever knowing that Athos had regained his memories and would never know that he didn’t hate the younger man. 

In a moment of clarity, Athos ripped the scarf he was wearing off from around his neck, barely feeling the friction burn caused by the fabric chafing along his skin. He bunched it up and pressed it as hard as he could into d’Artagnan’s back wound, hoping to staunch the bleeding somewhat until Aramis found them. The younger man’s face scrunched up in pain as he groaned, but d’Artagnan did not wake. As he moved to once more bring his friend closer, into almost a hug with the man’s head resting on one of his shoulders, Athos found himself apologizing for causing his friend additional pain. 

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” 

Athos felt that he was apologizing not only for the pain he was currently causing, but for all of the pain and heartache he was certain he had caused d’Artagnan over the past few weeks. D’Artagnan _had_ to survive, _had_ to live, so that he could properly apologize as well as make amends for his appalling, and perhaps inexcusable, behavior. 

A hand gripped his shoulder, startling him, and he cursed himself yet again for his lack of awareness, especially towards any enemies that could still be around. Though he had his arms full of his injured friend, Athos on reflex stretched the hand not holding the scarf towards his dropped sword, but as he looked up to see what new trouble they were in, he met eyes with Aramis. 

Relaxing at the sight of both Aramis and Porthos, he stopped trying for his sword and readjusted his grip on d’Artagnan. 

“You need to let him go now, Athos. Aramis needs to take a look.” —Porthos’s hand covered the one holding the scarf to d’Artagnan’s wound—“You need to let go.” 

“I can’t,” Athos said, and even he could hear how heartbroken he sounded. “He stepped into the path of a bullet. One meant—” 

“Yes he did, my friend,” Aramis calmly said, interrupting his near-rambling. “And now he needs you to let go so that I can keep him alive and you can yell at him for being a reckless, selfless idiot.” 

Athos had been keeping his hand pressed tightly against d’Artagnan’s wound for God only knew how long; he tried, but couldn’t make his hand move. 

“I can’t,” he repeated, feeling helpless and meaning it in a physical sense this time. 

His two friends exchanged a look, and Porthos gently moved the hand holding the scarf away from the Gascon’s back. A tingling sensation ran up and down his fingers as they finally relaxed, letting go of the now-bloody scarf. Without asking permission, Porthos helped Aramis shift d’Artagnan so that the younger man’s torso was lying more fully on his upper body, presumably so that Aramis could get a better look at the wound. 

Athos was strangely fine with the new positon, despite being trapped in a vulnerable, supine position, and regardless of the fact that he was not an overly tactile person. In this case, the contact he maintained served to remind him that d’Artagnan was still alive as he felt the movement of his friend’s still-breathing chest as the proof of continued life. 

Aramis drew his main gauche and slit the bullet hole in d’Artagnan’s doublet and shirt a little wider and down to the bottom edges of both garments, checking the wound before digging into his pocket for a handkerchief and pressing it to the wound. 

“Porthos, my horse. I need a bandage, and we need to get him help as soon as possible.” Porthos stood and quickly moved out of his line of sight as Aramis continued speaking. “He needs a physician. I can’t— I don’t have the skill to deal with such a wound.” 

Athos was about to ask if d’Artagnan was dying, but just managed to stop the words from coming out of his mouth. “How bad?” he asked instead, his voice cracking slightly. 

Aramis stared at him for a moment before replying, “Bad.” His friend’s gaze lowered, and Aramis wiped the back of one of his wrists across his forehead, before meeting Athos’s eyes again. “Do you…remember him now?” 

Athos nodded, feeling guilt seep in around the edges of his anxiety over d’Artagnan’s condition. “I’m not sure it’s everything, but enough.” 

His friend was about to reply, when Porthos, instead of fetching the bandages and returning on foot, came thundering in on his horse, the other three horses’ reigns in his hand. Porthos dismounted and pushed aside his horse to get at Aramis’s saddlebag. Finding the much-needed bandage, Porthos tossed it to Aramis who easily caught it, neatly plucking it out of the air. 

Aramis quickly pressed the new bandage on top of the bloodied handkerchief. His friend then snatched his discarded scarf up from the ground and, with Porthos’s help, tied it tightly around d’Artagnan’s waist to hold the new bandage in place. Other than grimacing in pain, d’Artagnan did not stir. 

As his two friends gently lifted d’Artagnan up off the ground, Athos was finally able to sit up, and he shakily got to his feet. 

“Alright?” Aramis asked before taking up the rest of d’Artagnan’s weight and moving towards the horses. 

Athos waved them off. Unfortunately for d’Artagnan, he was almost perfectly fine. Right now he could care less if his head hurt. He watched his friends walking away from him, and seeing the bandage bulging out from between the slices of fabric of the Gascon’s shirt, he was reminded of the proximity of the wound to d’Artagnan’s spine. There was no way to tell what the bullet may have damaged once it entered the other man’s body. 

That thought made him sick to his stomach like no other wound he’d seen ever had before, aside from that of his brother, Thomas. He had to swallow several times to keep the bile climbing up his throat from making an appearance. 

By the time he made it to the horses, d’Artagnan was sitting in front of Aramis in the saddle. 

“We should head back towards Saint Sulpice,” Aramis said, while he and Porthos were mounting their horses. “D’Artagnan needs help soonest. Though Foulebec is closer, heading back towards the larger city of Ponteau de Mer* might be a better option for his recovery once his wound has been stabilized.” 

Athos took the reins of d’Artagnan’s horse from Porthos, earning him a strange look from the larger man. 

He ignored it and said, “Then, let’s ride.” 

They nudged their horses’ flanks and headed in the direction of Saint Sulpice, Athos wondering if they would find the help d’Artagnan so desperately needed. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Twenty-three: Answers 

**ooooooo**

 

 **Story/History Notes :**

**“ _You fool!”_** :  Quoted from episode 1.10, “Musketeers Don’t Die Easily” written by Adrian Hodges. 

**_Ponteau de Mer_ :** For reference, in case anyone is lost… Ponteau de Mer is the first city the guys visited for their current mission (Chapter 17), and Foulebec is where they were headed when they were attacked (Chapters 19 and 21). Going north, the order is: Ponteau de Mer, Toutainville, Saint Sulpice, and Foulebec.   

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to remind everyone that, unless otherwise noted, I will post a new chapter every Tuesday evening/night (Arizona, USA time). If this site is ever down, I also post my stories over on the FanFiction website under the same name. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	24. Chapter Twenty-three: Answers

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty-three: Answers**

Back on that bloodied field, Athos had dearly wanted to demand that d’Artagnan ride with him. He desperately needed the reassurance the younger man continued to live, but Athos no longer felt as if he deserved any such comfort given the way he had been treating the Gascon. Granted, he’d had amnesia, and was in fact still recovering from the lingering effects of his head wound, but that was not a good enough excuse – or any excuse at all. He could have – _should have_ – treated d’Artagnan with at least a minimum amount of courtesy and human kindness, and still couldn’t quite grasp why he hadn’t. 

Instead, he’d rebuffed every single attempt d’Artagnan had made to reconnect with him. He’d refused to allow d’Artagnan in his company when not required by their duties as Musketeers. More than once he’d put Aramis and Porthos in the unenviable position of having to choose between their friends. 

When he’d unavoidably been in the other’s company, Athos had noticed the Boy, as he’d come to think of d’Artagnan, was becoming more and more distant and withdrawn. Very early on, d’Artagnan had begun to disappear the moment their duties were finished for the day, choosing to train with other Musketeers, or volunteer for extra duty. At the time, he had felt the less he had to be in contact with the Gascon, the better. Now he realized it wasn’t just his memories that he’d been missing. 

Sometimes Aramis and Porthos would go looking for the Boy—for _d’Artagnan_ , but to no avail. It was as if d’Artagnan had made his friends’ choice for them, making it so that no choice would have to be made in the first place. 

Now that he had what he hoped were most of his memories back, Athos realized d’Artagnan must have thought his, Aramis and Porthos’s friendship, having been formed years earlier, meant that his shorter acquaintance with them was less significant and their friendships would not endure. Athos definitely recalled how much d’Artagnan seemed to care about the three of them, despite never admitting that truth aloud to them. He had also been well aware of how insecure the Gascon was from time to time of his place amongst them due to those longer-standing friendships. 

D’Artagnan had been so willing to do anything for them that it was not out of the realm of impossibility the younger man would make the sacrifice and relinquish his friendships with Aramis and Porthos for his sake. The young Musketeer would not have wanted to make their two friends have to constantly choose between them when his very presence caused difficulties. 

From what he had seen and could remember of d’Artagnan’s actions these past weeks, the young man had obviously come to this selfless decision very quickly after his diagnosis. His actions and his rejection of d’Artagnan throughout the early hours and days after his injury must have only reinforced that decision as being the correct one in the other man’s mind. 

Why had he not given the Boy – _d’Artagnan_ – a chance like his – _their!_ – friends had pleaded with him to do? With his memories intact, he thought he might have a partial answer to that question. 

Without that emotion-laden first impression when he’d been accused of murder before being challenged to a duel barely seconds after they had laid eyes on each other… Without the young man’s actions reminding him a bit of his younger self as well as his younger brother... Without the Gascon’s efforts to free him from his unjust sentence of execution, despite barely having any time to grieve his father’s death… Without any of these circumstances, then there wouldn’t have been any reason for him to give d’Artagnan a second thought. 

It was the young man’s potential with a blade and his willingness to seek justice, which had more than caught his attention in the beginning, though he had been very careful not to give that fact away at the time. For many days after that first, turbulent meeting, he had watched d’Artagnan and had tolerated the younger man’s company, but had not bothered to really get to know him.  

The day he had offered to spar with d’Artagnan and then given him pointers afterwards, had drawn attention from more than one quarter. Captain Tréville had taken the action as his tacit approval of d’Artagnan, and had allowed the younger man to continue to accompany them on missions. Aramis and Porthos had confronted him, and while he had admitted nothing, the two men seemed to think that their group of three would one day permanently become a group of four. 

Athos knew that they had wholeheartedly approved of the idea, having immediately taken to d’Artagnan and their friendships gaining week by week. They also mentioned that they approved of the effect d’Artagnan seemed to have on him – whatever that was.  He had never really understood what his friends had meant by that comment. So what if he’d started to drink a little less in an effort to be better prepared in keeping d’Artagnan at bay when they trained with swords. It didn’t mean the Gascon had any influence over him. 

However, none of that mattered at present, and neither did their mission. What did matter was the life of his young brother. There was no point in arguing traveling arrangements when the best option at the moment was for d’Artagnan to ride with Aramis, the one who had the greatest knowledge and experience with battlefield medicine. 

Athos had seen Aramis’s look of surprise when he hadn’t demanded that d’Artagnan ride with him. Porthos had apparently caught the look between them, because he shot a questioning one Aramis’s way. When Aramis stepped up into his saddle and reached down for d’Artagnan, Athos thought he heard his friend reveal the current state of his memory. Porthos’s eyes widened in surprise as he’d helped get d’Artagnan up into the saddle with Aramis. Before Porthos could question him about his memory’s return, Athos turned away and walked towards his horse. From the other man’s expression, he could tell Porthos had some questions. 

Though his thoughts were focused more inward than outward, he hadn’t missed the looks Aramis and Porthos had exchanged as he fought to ignore his throbbing headache. Athos thought the two men were surprised by his most recent actions, but he refused to talk about them. For the first time in weeks, he was finally able to do right by d’Artagnan, though he longed to have that constant proof of life that riding double would have provided. 

After riding for a short while, his anxiety over their necessarily slower pace had increased to the point where he couldn't stand it any longer. His desire to get d’Artagnan the help he needed pushed him to make a decision to do something about it.  Athos informed his friends that he would ride ahead to Saint Sulpice so that he could have things prepared and the doctor ready to help as soon as they arrived. The sooner they could treat the younger man, the more likely d’Artagnan would survive. 

At least, he hoped that d’Artagnan would live. Any thoughts to the contrary were being ruthlessly shoved to the back of his mind. Athos would not accept anything less than a whole and hale d’Artagnan. 

He owed so many apologies to his friend, and refused to believe that he wouldn’t be able to deliver them to a d’Artagnan who could no longer hear them in person. He was afraid of how he would react if d’Artagnan should perish with this tumult still lingering between them. It left him wondering if losing d’Artagnan like this would push him into a far deeper and darker hole than he had been in after Thomas had died. Would he ever be able to pull himself out again? After everything he’d done recently, would he even _want_ to be pulled out again? 

Athos didn’t even give Porthos or Aramis a chance to voice an opinion about his proposal before he nudged his horse’s flank and raced ahead towards Saint Sulpice. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Twenty-four: Damage Control 

**ooooooo**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	25. Chapter Twenty-four: Damage Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that I am not a medical professional. Apologies for any inaccuracies.   
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty-four: Damage Control**

By the time the horses carrying his three friends arrived, Athos had almost everything ready to receive his wounded friend. The only thing that wasn’t ready was the one thing Aramis would be most unhappy about – there was no physician available to attend to d’Artagnan. The village’s physician was out dealing with a medical emergency of some kind, but no one knew exactly where he had gone or when he would return. Athos had spoken with some of the villagers, and their best guess was that the physician must be over at one outlying farms. Regardless, the man was too far away at present to be of any help to d’Artagnan. 

They would just have to make due, and pray that Aramis could still help d’Artagnan despite his earlier words. Athos had never been let down by Aramis’s skills as a medic, and had confidence his friend would be able to do something to save the younger man. 

When he heard the sound of horses arriving, Athos stepped outside in time to see Porthos carefully receiving d’Artagnan into his arms from atop Aramis’s horse. He rushed to help, and the two of them, with Aramis trailing behind carrying his kit, rushed their unconscious friend to the room that had been provided for them. 

Gently, as if they were handling a newborn, the three of them laid d’Artagnan onto one of the beds stomach side down. 

Aramis straightened, and asked him the question he’d been dreading, his friend reading the answer on his face before he could utter it. The marksman’s hands wrapped around the golden cross hanging around his neck, and the man bowed his head a moment, a voiceless prayer no doubt being uttered on the swiftly moving lips. From Porthos’s expression, the larger man had deduced what hadn’t yet been said aloud, and a particularly nasty curse swiftly followed. 

With a quiet “Amen,” Aramis lifted his head, and quickly divested himself of his weapons belt and doublet before rolling up his sleeves. His friend then unsheathed his main gauche and, murmuring a quick apology to d’Artagnan, Aramis carefully cut through the Gascon’s doublet, shirt, and temporary bandage. The oozing wound was now exposed, its placement making Athos wonder anew if survival was still possible. 

After ridding themselves of their own weapons and doublets, he and Porthos helped to remove the remains of d’Artagnan’s clothes, carefully sliding the material out from under the torso, before removing the breeches and boots, leaving the younger man in only his braies. It was a shame to have to completely destroy such a fine doublet, especially since it was one of the few articles of clothing his friend owned, but he could understand with such a wound why Aramis would not want to risk moving d’Artagnan around anymore than they already had. Athos made a mental note to see if he could get another doublet made to match the old one; it was the least he could do for someone he had continuously wronged while he’d had amnesia. 

Meanwhile, Aramis had begun cleaning and examining the wound in d’Artagnan’s back. It was still seeping too much blood from what he could see, but it was the medic’s grim expression which gave him pause. 

“Aramis?” he asked when his friend continued to remain mum about d’Artagnan’s condition. 

“You’re absolutely certain the physician won’t be back soon? Or that there isn’t another one available?” 

“I’m certain.” 

Aramis ran a hand over his eyes, letting it slide down until he was stroking his beard. The action spoke volumes to Athos, but he wanted to hear it aloud. 

“I’m not sure I can do this,” Aramis said, shifting to grab his cross once more. 

“Yes, you can,” Athos said, certainty lacing every word. 

“You don’t understand!” 

“Then tell us!” 

“Come on Aramis,” Porthos said, laying a hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “Tell us what’s wrong.” 

“While I’ve taken out many bullets in my time, _this_ bullet has entered d’Artagnan’s body in a very delicate place. Depending on the angle it went in, there could be more damage than I could ever possibly repair. There is also the possibility I could do more harm or irreparable damage if I’m not extremely careful.” 

“You keep sayin’ damage,” Porthos said. “What damage?” 

“His spine. His kidney. Nicked blood vessel. It’s impossible to know until…” Aramis gestured towards d’Artagnan’s wound. 

Athos felt as if his heart had dropped into his feet and had just as quickly bounced back into its proper place, making him feel slightly dizzy and more than a little nauseas. He bowed his head and closed his eyes while trying to steady his breathing. His head was still hurting, but he refused to give into the pain for there was no time for it at present. His main priority at the moment was d’Artagnan’s well-being; Athos felt his own well-being did not and should not matter any longer.  

“Athos? You alright?” Porthos asked. 

Was _he_ alright? He couldn’t answer that question for fear of snapping at his friends. He couldn’t take his anger – and now guilt – out against two of the people he cared most about in all the world. Besides, he needed them focused on d’Artagnan – _not_ him. 

“I’m fine,” Athos replied in what he hoped was a convincing tone. Neither of his friends looked very convinced, but he ignored that. “He’ll die if you don’t do anything, right?” Aramis nodded. “Then you must do what you can.” 

When Aramis seemed about to say more, Athos said, “No. Enough talk. While we stand here discussing this, d’Artagnan’s life is ebbing away!” 

“Athos,” Porthos said, his voice taking on a tone of warning. 

“No,” Aramis said with head bowed and shoulders slumped. “He’s right. I will do my best.” 

“It will be enough. I know it will,” Porthos said as Aramis began preparing the tools he would need for surgery. 

Porthos began to pace back and forth across the length of the room, obviously trying to work off some of his nervous energy. Athos watched for a moment before finally noticing the blood on Porthos’s forehead which had trickled down the left side of his face. 

As he made his way to d’Artagnan’s uninjured side and carefully sat on the chair he’d moved next to the bed, he said, “Porthos, you’re bleeding.” 

“Nah. I don’t think it’s my blood. Head butted one of them, but I’m good.” 

Aramis whistled a warning as he tossed a damp cloth at Porthos, who easily caught it. “Clean up. I’m going to need your help in a minute. I’ll check your head afterwards.” 

“I told ya, I don’t need—” 

“I’m not going to argue with you. Not now. Just…please.” 

Porthos raised his hands in surrender, and apologized before starting to clean his face. 

Athos returned his attention to d’Artagnan. He could see that every breath pained his young friend as the muscles in his back expanded and contracted with each inhale and exhale. D’Artagnan’s breath would occasionally hitch, and his facial muscles would tighten in response to the unceasing pain stimuli. 

Athos shifted his hand with the intention of gently laying it on d’Artagnan’s upper back, hoping the familiar touch would help in some way. His hand started to lower of its own accord, but before it could actually touch d’Artagnan’s shoulder blade, he suddenly withdrew it. After all he’d done, did he even have the right to think the gesture would be welcomed? 

He began to stand, but Aramis’s words stopped him from rising. 

“No, Athos. Stay right where you are, and keep d’Artagnan’s upper body from moving.” 

Aramis arranged d’Artagnan’s left arm so that is was curled around the younger man’s head and out of the way of the surgical area. 

“Porthos, you can hold his lower body down. I can’t stress enough that you need to keep him as still as possible. He’s _definitely_ going to feel me poking around…One wrong move – from any of us – and well…” 

“Got it,” Porthos said, moving into place to do his part. 

Acknowledging the words with only a nod, Athos positioned himself so that he could keep d’Artagnan from moving. One hand grabbed the wrist of the arm which had been moved to curl around the young man’s head. He then repositioned d’Artagnan’s other arm so that when he leaned on his friend’s upper back and shoulders, it would hopefully be trapped and kept from moving by his body weight. 

Meanwhile, Porthos had positioned himself so that the bulk of his weight was across d’Artagnan’s upper thighs. When he was ready, he looked at Aramis and gave a brief nod. Athos shared a look with Porthos, whose forehead had the beginnings of a spectacular bruise, but thankfully no actual wound. 

Aramis grabbed his cross and quickly muttered a prayer, ending by saying aloud, “And the prayer of faith shall save the sick*. Amen.” 

Porthos repeated the _Amen_ , and Athos found himself unexpectedly doing the same. 

Aramis took a deep breath and slowly released it as he picked up a slim metal rod. 

“I’m going to probe for the bullet now.” 

When Aramis inserted the long, thin tool into the wound, Athos had to briefly look away when blood trickled out as a result. He could feel d’Artagnan’s body tensing on occasion, but thus far— 

Suddenly, d’Artagnan flinched badly enough that Athos was confident Aramis had found the bullet. Thankfully, he and Porthos had kept the young man from moving too much. 

A moment later, Aramis confirmed his thought. “I’m now going for the bullet. Hold him absolutely still.” 

Athos tightened his grip, and noticed Porthos doing the same. Aramis picked up some tweezers and very carefully inserted them into the wound. D’Artagnan suddenly gasped and his upper back arched as if he were trying to get away from the pain of what was being done to him. 

As he tried to exert even more pressure to keep d’Artagnan from moving again, he saw that Aramis had retreated from the wound without extracting the bullet. 

Porthos relaxed his grip slightly. “Did you—?” 

“No,” Aramis said, though it sounded like a question. He bent over to inspect the site of the wound more closely, wiping away some blood, and then straightened. “No. Just a small scratch on the outside of the wound as I pulled the instrument back.”—Aramis sighed in relief—“You need to keep him still.” 

“And _you_ need to be more careful,” Athos said with the same amount of venom lacing his voice. 

Aramis opened his mouth to reply, when Porthos interrupted, “Hey! Stop it. Both of you. Argue later; help d’Artagnan now.” 

“I apologize,” Athos said, knowing he had been unfair. 

“Me as well,” Aramis said with a slight smile. “Shall we try again?” 

“Athos, do you want to switch places? D’Artagnan is barely moving his lower half. It might be easier if I’m where you are.” 

“I’ve got it.” 

“You sure?” 

Athos leveled a glare that clearly expressed his thoughts on the matter, which had Porthos briefly raising his hands in surrender. 

They each readjusted their grips on d’Artagnan, and Aramis nodded once in approval as he adjusted his hold on the tweezers. Athos could feel d’Artagnan tensing up again, hearing a quiet, almost whispered moan of pain. He looked down and noticed d’Artagnan’s eyes were slightly open before they closed once and then slowly opened again to half-mast. 

Athos could see the eyes were unfocused, yet full of pain, and he started whispering nonsense he would never be able to completely recall to d’Artagnan in order to distract the younger man from what was being done to him. After a moment or two, d’Artagnan’ eyes fixed on him briefly before they closed tight, likely due to the pain. 

Aramis’s voice interrupted the relative quiet, momentarily distracting him from d’Artagnan. “Come on….Come on. Just a little more and…”Athos heard a pained inhalation of breath and a sickening squelch from the area of the bullet hole just as a triumphant voice said, “There!” 

Aramis held up the bullet briefly before tossing both it and the tweezers he had been using down onto the rickety-looking chair that was being used as a table. Athos watched as Aramis pressed a thick pad of linen against the seeping wound. “Thank God! I don’t think the bullet hit any organs or major blood vessels.” 

A modicum of relief crept over Athos as he focused back on d’Artagnan and saw that the Gascon was still stubbornly awake. He missed whatever Porthos and Aramis were saying to each other, but could tell by the look on d’Artagnan’s face when Aramis began stitching the wound closed. He knew it was unseemly to stare, but he couldn’t help but be entranced by the fact that d’Artagnan was remaining conscious, and dearly wished he could take the pain away. 

By the time Aramis had finished, d’Artagnan’s eyes were blinking owlishly, like he wanted to pass out but couldn’t for some reason. Athos hoped it was not some misguided desire to not appear weak in front of the three of them. Though, after everything that had happened between them recently, he could understand why the younger man might feel uncertain and attempt to stay awake. 

“It’s alright,” he said. “You can sleep now.” 

D’Artagnan’s bleary expression came to rest upon his face, and the accompanying confusion was easy to see. Athos would address that confusion later, when his friend was on the mend, but for now, d’Artagnan needed to rest and heal. 

“Sleep,” he said, putting a touch of command in his voice, hoping the Gascon would respond to it if nothing else. 

D’Artagnan’s eyes briefly met his for once again before closing, the younger man’s body suddenly going slack. Athos’s heart leapt into his throat as mild panic set in, because he thought d’Artagnan had let go and was now forever lost to him – to _them_ – and beyond the reach of any attempt at reconciliation. When he saw and felt d’Artagnan’s back rise and fall barely seconds later, relief went through him as though a dam had burst, its water flooding the surrounding land. 

Athos knew it was selfish, but he couldn’t bear to lose d’Artagnan before they’d had the opportunity to settle things between them. So far, it seemed God had no intention of taking that chance away from them. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Twenty-five: Window of Opportunity 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes : _  
_**

**_“And the prayer of faith shall save the sick”_ :** Aramis is referencing James 5:15 (KJV). The full verse is: “And the prayer of faith shall save the sick, and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he have committed sins, they shall be forgiven him.” 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	26. Chapter Twenty-five: Window of Opportunity

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty-five: Window of Opportunity**

A hand landed on his shoulder, startling Athos out of the morose thoughts his mind had settled onto. 

“He was awake?” Porthos asked. 

When words failed him, his friend’s hand moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck. The hand squeezed the tight muscles there as Porthos repeated his question. Despite his friend’s support, he still had no words, feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything that had happened in such a short amount of time, despite the apparently false impression that a millennia had gone by. This time he managed a nod in the affirmative and forced himself to let go of d’Artagnan. 

As he straightened up, Aramis scooped some sort of salve out of a small jar and covered d’Artagnan’s wound with it before adding a square of linen over the top. 

“We’ll let him sleep on his stomach for a while to let the wound settle before turning him over in the morning.”—Aramis wiped his fingers off on a towel—“Athos? How did you get d’Artagnan to remain so still?” 

“I talked to him.” 

“ _You_ talked? To him?” Porthos asked, pointing to their unconscious friend. 

“Yes,” Athos answered as if he didn’t see a problem with the idea that he had talked to their friend. 

To be fair, he didn’t usually speak much in general, and recently he hadn’t said much of anything to the Gascon that wasn’t derogatory or an order, preferring to pretend the younger man didn’t exist. While he’d not had his memories of the past couple of years, he’d not understood how a young upstart could’ve so fully ingratiated himself, so fully become a member of their small family. 

The difference in their ages alone should’ve been enough to keep them from interacting much outside of missions. A more insurmountable barrier should have been the close bond between himself and Aramis and Porthos. The three of them had been through so much together, and had a shorthand way of communicating through expressions and gestures, something that had naturally excluded others and kept them from becoming one of their small inner circle of friends. 

Yet, somehow, d’Artagnan had managed to push past those barriers, knocking them down to mere rubble in a relatively short amount of time. The younger man had become not only a brother-in-arms but a close friend to them all. For him at least, and he suspected it might be the same, or close to it, for Porthos and Aramis, d’Artagnan had become a brother of the heart. 

It was something he had never imagined would or could happen, given their inauspicious beginning. Yet his heart had betrayed him once again – first with Tréville and then with Aramis and Porthos, and more recently with d’Artagnan. As a man of few words, he had never expressed the sentiment aloud to the younger man, and thought perhaps it wasn’t necessary to do so.  

Before that thrice-damned mission to Brest, d’Artagnan had always had a knack for understanding him. Since Brest, it seemed his memory loss had changed him in ways that d’Artagnan could not understand, reconcile, or perhaps tolerate in the long run. Now, he greatly regretted never admitting how much the younger man meant to him before that bullet had shattered their brotherhood. Perhaps things might have turned out differently had he acknowledged a simple truth – d’Artagnan is his brother.  

With the return of his memories, he was fully aware of just how much of a bully and a tyrant he had been to the younger man, and the guilt and remorse he felt went down to the very marrow of his bones. All along he had been aware of this hole inside himself, and primarily thought it had been his memories. The remaining, he had assumed, was the loss of Thomas and the execution of his wife. 

He now knew better. Now he understood what, or rather _who_ , else was supposed to have filled in that hole inside himself. Now he understood what his friends had been trying to get him to realize and remember regarding d’Artagnan. His memories may have filled in a significant portion of that hole, but the final portion belonged to the brother who had so recently saved his life – perhaps at the cost of his own. If the younger man did not survive, then there would be another part of him that would remain forever empty, like that part of himself that belonged to his old life. Because of his disgraceful actions, it would be a loss he would never recover from. Yet, if d’Artagnan chose to not forgive him and forgo their friendship entirely, he would understand. His loss would forever be a reminder of the brotherhood that could’ve been. 

Athos had been well aware of how he had put Aramis and Porthos in the unenviable position of having to choose between friends due to the lingering consequences of his injury. They had both been torn between helping him and providing companionship to d’Artagnan. He had refused over and over again to yield to their pleas for him to reconsider getting to know the Gascon.  Not wanting a reminder of his failures, he instead fortified his walls and would not let the Boy past them. Because of that, d’Artagnan had paid the price over and over again, and he fervently hoped he hadn’t done irreparable harm to the younger man’s psyche. 

At one point, in an attempt to change his mind and aid his memory, his friends had taken him aside and told him the story of how they had met d’Artagnan. Porthos and Aramis had explained about how d’Artagnan had helped to save him after having mistakenly accused him of murder. D’Artagnan’s actions, despite still grieving over his recently slain father, had opened up a window of opportunity for friendship. D’Artagnan hadn’t bothered to sneak in through the high window of their fortress, and had instead knocked the main door down, practically daring the three men to not accept him. At first, Athos had been reserved with the Gascon, but the nearly disastrous mission with Vadim had shown him that he cared a bit more than he had originally thought. 

As his friendship with d’Artagnan had blossomed and deepened, he thought he would never forget the first day that they had met. What he hadn’t counted on was for Fate or God – or both – granting him a head injury which would erase the younger man from his mind. Some details of the time he had been missing were still a little unclear, but he now remembered how good a friend d’Artagnan had been to him since that first day – whether he had acknowledged it or not. 

That’s what he had been saying to d’Artagnan as Aramis had extracted the bullet. He’d thought at first that it had been random words of comfort, but now he realized the truth. He had been reminding d’Artagnan of the time spent getting to know one another, acknowledging how proud he was – and still is – of how d’Artagnan had won his commission, and admitting how lost he had been – though he hadn’t known it at the time – without the younger man by his side over the past weeks. 

He had said anything and everything he could to remind d’Artagnan that he had a reason to stay in the here and now, and to not do something as foolish as dying. Athos had even admitted how much he needed d’Artagnan in his life; that losing him would irreparably harm his three friends and devastate them. He’d even told d’Artagnan that he had an apology waiting for him that the younger man needed to be alive to hear. 

Athos was startled out of his thoughts by Aramis who was rearranging d’Artagnan’s arms into more comfortable positions and bringing a blanket up to cover the younger man’s lower half. 

ooooooo 

After that, they settled into their usual routine for when one of their own was injured. One of them remained on watch while the other two rested or collected sustenance or other supplies for the group. Athos refused to budge from d’Artagnan’s side, taking first watch. He saw it not only as penance for his recent actions, but as a chance to be the friend d’Artagnan had needed these past weeks. 

When it came time for Porthos to be on watch, Athos refused to stand down or move from the bed. Porthos had shrugged and had taken a seat on the other side of the bed. It surprised him a little that the other man had not insisted, but he figured that Porthos had heard Aramis’s earlier threat. 

For a while before Aramis had gone to get some sleep, the man had quizzed him on his memory. Some memories were still hazy and incomplete, but Aramis believed they might clear and completely return in time. He had also been cautioned that the headaches would probably plague him for some time to come. Aramis had also threatened that, if he did not take a rest every once in a while, he and Porthos would force him to do so – by any means necessary. 

There was already a dull ache behind his right eye that he hoped wouldn’t blossom into a full-fledged migraine such as he had been suffering recently. When the ache finally became impossible to ignore, beating in time with his heart, he repositioned his chair so that he could put his feet up and rest more comfortably. 

ooooooo 

Over the past hour, d’Artagnan had become more and more restless, which convinced him to get over his reservations and lay a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, hoping it would provide comfort not only to him but to his injured friend. The skin beneath his hand felt hot, and he practically snatched his hand back in alarm. The sudden influx of worry made the pain spike in his head, but he ignored it as Porthos went to wake Aramis. Aramis did some checks, but it was obvious d’Artagnan was going to have to battle an infection. 

“I’m going to make up a drawing poultice and apply it to his wound. Hopefully, it will take care of the infection. We’ll also need some cool or cold water to help keep d’Artagnan’s temperature down.” 

Porthos quickly volunteered and hurried out of the room while Aramis got to work mixing a poultice. Despite the pain growing in his head, Athos helped Aramis as much as possible. He tried to hide his pain, but knew Aramis had probably already spotted it with his eagle eyes. 

When Porthos returned with the water, Aramis prevented his hand from reaching for a cloth to wet and put on d’Artagnan’s forehead. “No. You are going to take something for your headache and rest. If this gets any worse, he’s going to need you at your best.” 

“He thinks I hate him. Why would he ever need me?” 

“D’Artagnan misses you.”—Aramis smiled mischievously—“God knows why, but he does. We have become his family, but it is your good opinion he seeks out and cares about the most…” 

“Aye, ‘tis true,” Porthos said, “He sees your faults and doesn’t care. And despite your occasional backsliding, I’d wager you’ve been more alive, more _you,_ than you ever have since I first met you. We all are, and it’s because of d’Artagnan.” 

Athos had no idea what to say in response to his brothers’ words, but before he could even begin to think about it, another spike of pain had him closing his eyes and bowing his head, a low grunt of pain erupting from his mouth. 

“Here,” Aramis said, handing him a cup. “Drink that. I’ll wake you if things get worse.” 

Athos drank the vile concoction and lay down on the other bed. Despite his worry for his young friend and the pain throbbing at his temples, he was asleep in moments. **  
**

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Twenty-six: Thread 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Any remaining mistakes are part of life.


	27. Chapter Twenty-six: Thread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not a medical professional. Apologies for any inaccuracies.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty-six: Thread**

When Porthos woke him up, it took a moment or two before the drugged fog of sleep to clear from his head enough so he could think. Athos felt like he had been sleeping for several days straight, but at least his headache was gone. 

Porthos quietly stood by while he was getting his bearings. Athos loved that Porthos knew when to give him space and when to force him to interact with the world. Suddenly, his thoughts turned towards d’Artagnan and his heart began to race. Was his friend still alive? 

Groaning at the pain in his back from what were likely bruises he’d acquired the day before when d’Artagnan had saved his wretched life, he moved to get up off the bed, but Porthos stopped him. 

“Hey, hey. It’s alright. It’s morning.” His friend stepped aside so he could see the other bed in the room, and noted d’Artagnan had been turned onto his back and a blanket had been added. “He’s holding his own for now, so you _will_ eat something and _then_ you can sit with him while Aramis gets some sleep.” 

Aramis uttered a sound of frustration and threw his hands up in the air as he said, “I slept!” 

“No, you didn’t,” Porthos said. 

“Yes, I did,” Aramis said, sounding like he had regressed in age somewhat. 

Porthos rolled his eyes. “A fifteen minute nap is _not_ sleep.” 

“But last night… His fever—” 

“Is remaining steady right now. You can sleep a couple of hours. Athos and me can handle things for a bit.” 

Athos locked gazes with Aramis. “We will wake you at the first sign something has changed – for good or ill.” 

Aramis snatched the cloth from d’Artagnan’s forehead and tossed it in the bucket of water beside the bed. With an annoyed-sounding huff, Aramis stood up from the chair he’d been sitting in. 

“Fine.” Aramis stomped over towards the other bed. As he sat, he asked, “And how is your head this morning?” 

“Much better,” he replied. 

“Good,” Aramis said. He made exaggerated shooing motions with his hands. “Then go away. I’ve been told I need some sleep.” 

Athos leaned down, feeling his back muscles protest slightly, and grabbed his boots before standing and going over to d’Artagnan’s bed. 

ooooooo 

While eating, Athos learned from Porthos that the physician, Montfort, had come by while he’d been asleep, and the fact that he had been unaware of the visit told him just how badly he had needed the sleep. The man had checked d’Artagnan’s condition, apologizing for his unannounced absence and for not being available to aid with such a critical injury. Praising Aramis’s surgical skills, and commenting he could not have done better in the same situation, Montfort then added that he had every confidence Aramis would do a more than adequate job with d’Artagnan’s recovery. Before the physician had left, Montfort had given them some additional supplies for use in continuing to treat their friend, and he’d announced he would be available if needed unless there was another emergency which took him away from the village proper. 

Because d’Artagnan’s condition had not deteriorated, Athos had hoped the young man’s recovery would proceed without complications. 

Those hopes were thoroughly dashed sometime later when he went to put a fresh, cold cloth on d’Artagnan’s forehead. When he made contact with the Gascon’s skin, he pulled his hand back out of reflex due to the excessive heat that he had felt there. 

Athos abruptly stood, startling the dozing Porthos, and went to wake Aramis. He managed to narrowly avoid the flailing hands that accompanied the other man’s sudden rise to wakefulness. 

Both Aramis and Porthos started to ask what was wrong, but with one look at him and then d’Artagnan, Aramis rushed to the bed. 

“I need to check his wound,” Aramis said. “Porthos, help me turn him over.” 

He didn’t want to leave his friends, but knowing Aramis would need more water, Athos retrieved the bucket and went to gather some. As he’d hurried to fill the bucket, he couldn’t help but feel increasingly guilty over the mercy he’d been shown by someone he’d practically terrorized for weeks. Yet, he was convinced his horrid behavior hadn’t even been remembered or considered when d’Artagnan had chosen to push him out of the path of a bullet. 

With the fever gaining a foothold in the younger man’s body, d’Artagnan was continuing to suffer due to that courageous and selfless act. This, too, was his fault. His stubbornness and incapability to loosen the hold he had on his past had led to this hell all four of them were currently living through. 

By the time he had returned, Aramis had already removed the bandages and was examining the now red and puffy wound, which was seeping some pus. Athos heard Aramis curse. 

“What is it?” Athos asked. 

“Infection. I’m going to have to drain the wound, if he is to have any hope of surviving.” 

“Should I get the physician?” 

Aramis stopped to consider his question, but quickly shook his head. “ _This_ , I’m very familiar with – unfortunately. The physician would likely to do what I’m about to, but if d’Artagnan gets worse, we’ll need his help.” 

Both he and Porthos resumed their previous positions, while Aramis bowed his head and said a short, simple prayer. “God, please.” 

Aramis used a small knife to cut the stitches and then used the tweezers to remove them. D’Artagnan’s face contorted once or twice, but the young man didn’t otherwise move. Athos found it difficult to watch as Aramis drained the puss from the wound, knowing it was because of him that d’Artagnan had been injured. He forced himself to witness every detail, deciding it would be a part of his penance to have to watch a procedure that by rights should have been performed on him and not on his young friend. 

Eventually, Aramis grabbed a half-full bottle of wine, and nodded towards him and Porthos, signaling them to prepare for a reaction from the wound being flushed out. Before he started pouring, however, Aramis paused and peered more closely at the wound. The medic uttered a noise of frustration before grabbing his tweezers again. He poured a little wine on them, set the bottle down, and then bent over, once again peering closer at the wound. 

Aramis used the tweezers to grab at something Athos couldn’t quite see. “Gotcha!” his friend said, sounding triumphant. 

“What?” Porthos asked, moving a little closer to see what Aramis had pulled from the wound. 

“This, my friends, is a thread – probably from d’Artagnan’s shirt. It thought it could hide from me. It was wrong.” 

“And that caused—?” 

“The infection? I think so.”—Aramis picked up the bottle of wine—“I’m going to flush his wound out. He’s definitely going to feel this.” 

He and Porthos resumed holding d’Artagnan down as Aramis poured the wine. The Gascon emitted a strangled cry and flinched, d’Artagnan’s head and shoulders straining against his hold. Athos flinched as well, remembering a time when he’d had to endure the same treatment. When Aramis stopped pouring, d’Artagnan tossed his head around a bit before stilling. The stillness was so sudden, that Athos would have panicked had he not had immediately seen the younger man take a breath. 

Aramis seemed surprised that d’Artagnan had not awakened, but then said, “It’s probably a good thing he stayed out during this. It spared him some pain and discomfort, and sleep is good for healing. Besides, he hasn’t been able to get much of it lately.” 

Athos flinched slightly at the implication that d’Artagnan’s insomnia had flared up again, knowing he was the most likely cause of it. He rinsed a cloth in the cool water he’d retrieved and laid it over the back of the younger man’s neck while Aramis finished cleaning up and redressing the wound. 

_This is all my fault_ , he thought. 

“That’s some trick.” 

His head snapped up at the words and he looked over at Porthos, “What?” 

“I said, ‘that’s some trick.’ You’ll need to show me how to do that. Might come in handy.” 

“What?” Athos said, totally confused by what his friend was saying. How did Porthos know what he’d just thought? “I don-don’t understand.” 

“Alright. Let me put it this way,” Porthos said, a touch of frustration and anger in the man’s voice. “Did you ask those men to attack us?” 

“No…” 

“Did you purposely put yourself in the line of fire?” 

“Of course not!” Athos stood, feeling irritated and wondering why Porthos would think— 

His friend stepped up to him and gripped his shoulders. “Did you shoot d’Artagnan?” 

“What?!” Athos said, rearing back and dislodging the hands on his shoulders. “No!” 

“Then it ain’t your fault.” 

Athos’s mind short-circuited at those words. Of course, it was his fault. If he hadn’t— 

“Athos, it’s not your fault,” Porthos said, slowly enunciating each word. “You may’ve been a complete bastard to him recently, but he would’ve done the same thing for any of us, and you know it. It’s not your fault he was shot.” 

He didn’t know what to think, and looked over towards Aramis, expecting the man to weigh in on the conversation. 

Aramis simply grinned, and then gestured towards Porthos. 

“What he said.” 

Athos shook his head in disbelief. He didn’t deserve friends like Aramis and Porthos. Or, perhaps he did. 

If only he could still count d’Artagnan as a friend as well. He no longer deserved to consider the younger man his brother. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Twenty-seven: Actions 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	28. Chapter Twenty-seven: Actions

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty-seven: Actions  
**

Athos adjusted the sheet covering d’Artagnan’s upper body for what was possibly the twentieth time since he had been left alone to keep watch over his friend. He couldn’t seem to help himself, and wasn’t exactly sure why he continued doing it. Perhaps his subconscious was trying to make up for his recent actions. 

One thing he did know for certain was that waiting for d’Artagnan to regain consciousness was slowly tearing him apart. While it had been touch and go with the fever ravaging the young man, he had been so focused on bringing d’Artagnan through it, that he’d scarcely had time to think of much else, let alone the events that had landed his friend in this precarious situation in the first place. 

But now… Now it seemed like he had all the time in the world. 

Why had d’Artagnan jumped in front of a bullet like that? His own actions over the past weeks had been abominable; he didn’t deserve such a sacrifice from anyone let alone the man he had been torturing one way or another almost without mercy. Porthos had said d’Artagnan would have done the same for any of them, and Athos now believed the action to have perfectly exemplified the strength of the younger man’s character. To save a fellow Musketeer in the heat of battle, putting all of the animosity between them aside, was the very definition of honorable. It was d’Artagnan’s strength, not only in character, but in spirit, mind, and body that Athos was counting on to bring the Gascon through these next days. 

Athos was greatly concerned over the fact that d’Artagnan had yet to regain consciousness, and was worried about what it might mean in regards to his recovery. When he had mentioned his concerns to Aramis, his friend had been rather blunt with him. Aramis had proceeded to inform him of what he had observed and of the rumors he had heard about d’Artagnan, which were likely contributing to the younger man’s poor condition and continued unconsciousness. 

ooooooo 

Aramis had filled him in on a great deal of things related to d’Artagnan. 

Athos’s animosity towards d’Artagnan had spread throughout much of the regiment, many of the men taking it as blanket permission to torment the younger man in a variety of ways. The worst was in gleefully taking up the offensive nickname that he’d given d’Artagnan.  His use of “Boy”, a means of avoiding being reminded of things he had wished his amnesia had also taken away, had become a source of regular torture for d’Artagnan, if the anguished look he’d managed to catch on at least one occasion was any indication. 

D’Artagnan had purposely become a relative ghost within the regiment, expertly evading both Aramis and Porthos whenever they attempted to spend time with the Gascon. The younger man had done his duty to his utmost these past weeks, but there had been no joy or satisfaction associated with it. Many times it had seemed like d’Artagnan had lost all confidence in himself and his skills, triggering mistakes the younger man would not normally make. 

Porthos and Aramis had despaired of the news Tréville had shared with them one day about d’Artagnan requesting he be allowed to work with other Musketeer teams, taking it as a sign that there was little hope remaining that things could ever be the same again.  And perhaps they couldn’t. Things would definitely have to change if they could ever be a team again. 

For Aramis, the final straw had come when d’Artagnan had refused his aid with the cut Athos had accidentally given him during their bout of swordplay.  Both he and Porthos had rallied those Musketeers who were fond of the Gascon, and had requested the men provide support to d’Artagnan whenever and wherever possible. Athos was beyond grateful for the efforts of those like Filleul* and Vasseur,* promising himself that he would find a way to repay the kindnesses Aramis had told him about at a time when he had been incapable of the sentiment towards d’Artagnan. 

It occurred to him at that point that, before his own head injury, d’Artagnan had been going through a bout of insomnia. According to Aramis, that insomnia, which usually went away after a few days, had reportedly continued on and on and had likely not stopped until forced to by a bullet to his back. 

Both Porthos and Aramis had witnessed just how exhausted d’Artagnan seemed to be whenever they were on duty together or had caught a glimpse of him at other times. The two men thought it was a result of all the stress the Gascon had recently been under. First there had been the worry about Athos and his amnesia, and then, after they returned to Paris, it had been the regular persecution by him. It was no wonder the younger man had been unable to get a good night’s sleep. 

From what Porthos had been able to learn from Serge, d’Artagnan had also not been eating much, or at all, in recent weeks. No one had yet to see the man clear a plate of food at the meal times the Gascon had attended, which was not often. Most of the time, d’Artagnan had taken his meals elsewhere in order to avoid any potential confrontation with him. 

Now that he’d had the time to really look at d’Artagnan, he could see the dark circles under the younger man’s eyes which could no longer be hidden by the dark-olive skin. By looking at his friend’s face and torso, it was also easy to see how much leaner d’Artagnan was than was normal, or healthy. 

ooooooo 

By his reckoning, all of this was his fault. Porthos and Aramis may have attempted to absolve him of any fault in d’Artagnan being physically wounded, but there was no absolution for everything else. 

Athos was well aware losing his memories was something that had been beyond his control, but what he could have controlled were his actions in the aftermath, especially in the days after he’d returned to Paris. Instead, he’d done everything he could to alienate and punish d’Artagnan, all because of something he had no right to blame the younger man for – not being his brother and reminding him of himself when he had been young and content with his life. 

He wouldn’t blame d’Artagnan if the man never forgave him for what he’d done and how he had acted. He wouldn’t blame the Gascon if d’Artagnan never wanted to see or talk to him ever again outside of their duties as Musketeers. 

Following d’Artagnan’s example, he would absent himself from his two other essential friendships. Self-exile from his friends’ presence would only be right and proper punishment. Porthos and Aramis had stood by him through so much since they’d met, and had helped him through some of the darkest days of his life. Knowing they were with d’Artagnan and watching over him would be enough. 

He had been alone before; he could do it once again. It was what he clearly deserved, but this time he would not seek self-destruction through over-indulgence in wine or recklessness in battle. No, this time he would remain steadfast in denying himself any means of escape, and be the best version of himself he could. He would be the version of himself that d’Artagnan had apparently seen in him from almost from the beginning of their friendship. It was the least he could do, and yet it didn’t seem enough. 

Athos adjusted the sheet covering d’Artagnan once more, smoothing a small wrinkle in the fabric. He watched as the younger man’s chest moved up and down, up and down, as d’Artagnan continued to breathe. Despite the evidence of his own eyes, it was somehow not enough proof of life for him. His hand hovered over one of d’Artagnan’s, longing to touch and feel the warmth that would unequivocally prove his friend was still among the living, but just as he was about to grasp the hand, he withdrew it as if burned. 

Abruptly, he stood, once more feeling he had no right to such comfort for himself. 

Needing distance, but in no way willing to leave d’Artagnan completely alone, he strode over to the room’s door and threw it open. Leaning against the doorway, he could just barely see down into the inn’s common room. For a time, he switched between watching the comings and goings of the people down below and checking on his injured friend. 

Briefly his thoughts drifted back towards the missive he had sent to Ponteau de Mer. Shortly after Aramis had drained d’Artagnan’s wound, something Porthos had said reminded him of their duty towards the mission they’d been given. Up to then, he’d been so caught up in what had happened to his friend, that he’d not given their mission a second thought. He’d taken the time to write a short report on their progress, the attack, and his theories about the raiders. Having sent a messenger south with the missive, he was now waiting for a reply. _More waiting_ , he thought and sighed. 

At one point, he caught a glimpse of Porthos walking towards someone outside of his line of sight, likely Aramis, who was supposed to be getting them something to eat and drink. Porthos had volunteered to go out to the stable to check on their horses, making sure they were being treated well. Though given how grateful the village was for ridding them of the threat of the raiders, they and their horses were being treated like royalty, not having to pay for their lodging or the supplies to treat d’Artagnan. 

From behind him, he heard a sound of distress and turned to see d’Artagnan restlessly moving his head and arms, disturbing the bedclothes he’d been compulsively straightening only minutes before. Stepping back into the room, he closed the door and hurried to d’Artagnan’s bedside. 

Barely, a moment later, he was looking into his friend’s eyes for the first time in days. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Twenty-eight: Nightmare 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**_Filleul_ :** Mentioned in “Distance,” Chapter 3 of Celticgal1041’s “Hard Lessons”, which are a series of tags based on Chapters 13-16 of this story. He was the Musketeer who stitched d’Artagnan’s arm after the events of “Chapter Fifteen: Training Day.” 

**_Vasseur_ :**  Mentioned in “Hard Lesson,” Chapter 4 of Celticgal1041’s “Hard Lessons”, which are a series of tags based on Chapters 13-16 of this story. He was the one who invited d’Artagnan out to a tavern with other fellow Musketeers. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celticgal1041 for her help with this chapter! Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	29. Chapter Twenty-eight: Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the end for a question I have for you guys. Thanks. 
> 
> Warning: Evil cliffhanger ahead…  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty-eight: Nightmare**

At first d’Artagnan’s eyes held no recognition, and Athos watched as the younger man rapidly blinked as if to help them gain clarity. 

Unsure of his welcome, Athos warred between saying something and remaining quiet in order to allow the Gascon to regain his bearings. D’Artagnan’s expression soon began to clear, and recognition dawned on the younger man’s face, which was soon followed by joy. 

Just as he was about to ask how d’Artagnan was feeling, the joyous expression on the younger man’s face suddenly morphed to disappointment tinged with sadness. The sudden change was disconcerting, but he let it go for the moment. 

Knowing how dry one’s mouth could be after waking from a fever, making it too difficult to talk, Athos picked up the cup of water from the bedside table and held it up in offering. Far too meekly, d’Artagnan accepted his help with drinking, taking a few sips before refusing any more. 

As he set the cup back on the table, Athos heard a hoarsely whispered, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” he said, noting the confused expression on d’Artagnan’s face at his words before adding, “Aramis and Porthos will be back shortly.” 

D’Artagnan refused to look in his direction, but dipped his head in acknowledgement. 

As the silence in the room began to stretch out between them, Athos thought d’Artagnan would’ve said or asked something – _anything_ – about why he was lying in a strange bed, but the younger man seemed uncaring of his current situation.  D’Artagnan had to be in a fair amount of pain and feeling weak after battling that fever, yet there was no indication of any physical discomfort. On the other hand, he could practically feel the emotional discomfort radiating from the man in the bed. 

Despite the fact that Aramis would soon return, he suddenly felt the need to retrieve their friends so they could act as a buffer, but loathed the idea of leaving d’Artagnan alone. Truth be told, he would’ve been happy if d’Artagnan would just talk to him, but he supposed after everything that had happened, the younger man had no desire to speak to him. He couldn’t blame d’Artagnan for such an attitude. 

Once upon a time, the Gascon saving him from his burning house, and him confessing his shame regarding his wife, had opened the doors to an even deeper friendship between them. Since then, they could and had talked about everything under the sun, and he remembered— 

Athos had to work hard to keep himself from reacting to the realization d’Artagnan remained unaware of the fact that he had recovered the majority of his memories. He mentally cuffed himself in the back of the head for being an idiot. Of course d’Artagnan didn’t know. How could he have known? The poor man had been unconscious or fevered for too long. There had been no chance to inform him. 

He sat up and leaned forward, intending to tell d’Artagnan about the return of his memories, but noticed he was already too late to say anything. The Gascon still had his head turned away, but now his eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. Athos would be suspicious of the timing except for the fact that d’Artagnan’s face was completely relaxed and his breathing was regular. His friend – if he could still claim that honor – was still recovering, it would make sense for the injured man to need more sleep. 

The only question Athos had was if d’Artagnan had even bothered trying to stay awake – as he had done in the past – or if sleep had become a welcomed alternative in order to avoid him? 

He wished Porthos and Aramis would return, and wondered what they were doing. He didn’t really care other than to hope whatever they were doing was keeping their minds off of their wounded friend for a time and that they weren’t causing trouble. The two men definitely needed and deserved a break from the room every once in a while – especially Aramis. 

Their resident medic sometimes forgot to take care of himself properly when caring for a fellow Musketeer, particularly when it was one of the three of them. The many hours of fever d’Artagnan had endured had tapped into Aramis’s reserves and left the man exhausted. He and Porthos did all they could to stem the tide by helping out as much as possible and enforcing the taking of breaks on the rare occasion when the situation was not quite as dire. Aramis being willing to leave the room told him as much as anything else that d’Artagnan was truly on the mend. 

Athos stood and began to slowly pace the length of the room. 

More than once, he paused next to the table by the window and contemplated the bottle of wine sitting atop it. He desperately wanted to grab the full bottle and drink down every last drop, but was afraid that once he started drinking, he would not have the willpower to stop, and he was determined to keep the promise he’d made to himself about not over-indulging. 

It was ironic; he had so recently had his memories return and yet all he wanted was to lose them again. Not everything, but rather his recent, appalling behavior towards d’Artagnan. He let gravity pull him down into the only other chair in the room which was currently placed beside the table. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows upon the table as he ran his hands through his hair. 

After some moments, Athos sat up and stretched his back, feeling the healing bruises he’d acquired when d’Artagnan had saved his life. He leaned his head back against the wall and took a deep breath, slowly releasing it. Exhausted from the lack of restful sleep due to days of worrying about the younger man, Athos closed his eyes and didn’t even notice he hadn’t reopened them, for he was already asleep. 

Without fully registering why at first, he was suddenly awake and alert; in the next moment he was startled by Aramis’s cry of d’Artagnan’s name. Heart hammering in his chest, he turned his head so quickly to determine what’s going on that a couple of bones in his neck made cracking-popping sounds. 

What he saw before him was something out of a nightmare. 

Aramis was attempting to restrain a frantic d’Artagnan who was sitting half-way up, using one elbow as a prop and using his free, but fisted, hand to violently pound on his legs. The younger man was frenzied, and his mutterings, which were getting louder and louder, were nearly incomprehensible with the denials they contained. 

He was momentarily frozen with uncertainty about what to do to help, or even if he could help, given the strange happenings going on before him. From the door, he heard a loud curse from Porthos, and he turned just enough to see the larger man entering the room, carrying a tray of food. At Aramis’s panicked plea for aid, Porthos shoved the tray towards him and sprang forward to help restrain d’Artagnan in order to keep the Gascon from hurting himself further. 

Athos quickly grabbed it and moved to set the tray on the table, some of the contents of the bowls of stew sloshing over the sides, and stepped closer to the bed, wanting Aramis to tell him how he could help. Aramis was pleading with the younger man, begging him to stop what he was doing to himself and citing worry over the recently placed stitches, but d’Artagnan couldn’t seem to hear the medic’s pleas or anything else except for whatever his mind was telling him. 

Aramis dashed from the room, signaling to Athos as he left that he should take the marksman’s position in helping to restrain the still-frantic, yet despairing, man. Eventually, Porthos managed to pin d’Artagnan’s upper half down to the bed, preventing the Gascon from beating on his legs, though the Gascon was still weakly struggling against the arms which were keeping him from moving. 

It was at that very moment when d’Artagnan’s words finally began to register in his mind. It was only then that he began to understand why he’d had no trouble helping to restrain the younger man. 

“No, no, no, no…. My legs. No, no. C-can’t…can’t feel. Ple-ease…noooo.” 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Twenty-nine: Wait and See 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could you guys help me out with something? I started making a list of all the issues Athos and d’Artagnan need to cover when they finally talk, and found there are a lot. Plus, as readers, you’ve already had insight to many of them through character POV. I don’t want to bore you by rehashing things to death. So, here’s what I want to know: What *two* things would you most like to see addressed and/or mentioned in those scenes? I already know I’m going to cover the “Boy” name-calling issue and Thomas, but would love to know what else matters most to you guys. Keep in mind I won’t be able to cover everything on the list. Thanks in advance! :o)
> 
> Kudos to those reviewers who caught on about d’Artagnan’s legs. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	30. Chapter Twenty-nine: Wait and See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  **Warning**: There is mention and a brief description of a suicide that occurred in the past.  
> .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case it’s not obvious yet, I wanted to remind you that I’m not a medical professional.

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Twenty-nine: Wait and See**

Before Athos could fully comprehend the implications of d’Artagnan’s words, Aramis came rushing back into the room with a cup in his hand. He lifted d’Artagnan’s head and begged the younger man to open his mouth and drink, promising that it would make him feel better. D’Artagnan resisted at first, but drank when he soon realized it was pointless to resist. The fact that the younger man was still recovering meant that it was not long before d’Artagnan was blinking as if trying to keep his eyes open, the time between each opening and closing becoming longer and longer until his eyelids remained shut. 

Slowly, warily, Porthos released his grip in case d’Artagnan had somehow faked being unconscious, but he had not – the younger man was truly out for the count. Aramis set the cup he’d been holding down on the table and ran both hands through his hair, blowing out a relieved breath of air. 

It was at that point Athos finally regained the ability to speak. 

“Did you just hear him say—?” 

Porthos nodded. “It was just about the only thing he _was_ sayin’.” 

“Aramis? Is it possible?” 

“I’m afraid so.” Aramis gestured towards d’Artagnan’s legs. “You had to have noticed the lack of movement just now.” 

Athos nodded, and the three of them let stunned silence pervade the room for a few moments, each of them thinking of the implications if the condition was permanent. 

“Here,” Aramis said, breaking the silence. “Help me turn him on his side. I need to check his stitches.” 

When they got d’Artagnan onto his side, there were a couple spots of blood on the bandages. 

Aramis let loose one of his rare curses, and asked them to help him carefully reposition d’Artagnan onto his stomach. The medic grabbed a small knife and sliced through the bandage, leaving him to gently tease the fabric out from underneath their friend. 

Lifting the square of linen, Aramis paused for a moment and then said, “Thank God! He’s only torn a few stitches. An easy fix.” 

Athos was relieved to hear that, but couldn’t bring himself to ask his question. 

Thankfully, Porthos did it for him. “And his legs?” 

“Let me take care of this first,” Aramis replied, indicating the slowly oozing wound. “And then we’ll see.” 

While Aramis prepared the wound for sewing, Athos and Porthos automatically took up their previously positions, ready to keep d’Artagnan from moving. Athos was just rearranging d’Artagnan’s arms to keep them out of Aramis’s way when realization hit him. Hands paused in mid-air, Athos looked at Aramis, who was still preparing, and then over at Porthos, who was looking at him with what was likely the same devastated expression he was wearing. They had both realized the same thing – Porthos would not be needed this time. 

He wondered if the other man was wondering the same thing he was – that the reason d’Artagnan hadn’t moved his lower body much before now was because he—? 

As if reading their minds, Aramis said, “Be ready; just in case.” 

With each stitch, and absence of any reaction as a result, Athos began wanting to delude himself into thinking the lack of movement was due to the sedative Aramis had given d’Artagnan. He wanted so badly to believe that, but knew it probably wasn’t anywhere close to being true. 

This was his fault; he may not have shot the pistol that had put a bullet in his friend’s back, but it _was_ his fault that he hadn’t been paying enough attention to his surroundings, necessitating d’Artagnan placing himself in the path of a bullet that had been meant for him. 

“Porthos, can you go downstairs and borrow ink and a quill?” Aramis asked, startling him out of his guilty thoughts. “It would be better to do this when d’Artagnan was awake, but given his earlier reaction, I think we need to have some idea of how bad it is now.” 

Porthos rushed out of the room without saying anything beyond a nod of acknowledgment he would do as asked. 

“What do you need the pen and ink for?” Athos asked as Aramis retrieved a probe from his kit. 

Aramis sighed, sounding weary and dispirited. In his mind, Athos conceded they were probably all feeling the same way. 

“I saw this once when I was in the regular army. A friend was shot in the back, and he—” Aramis paused to rub a hand over his eyes. “He couldn’t move his legs. The physician probed his back and made marks in order to determine the extent of the loss of feeling and keep track in case any of it returned. I want to do the same now.” They both looked up at Porthos’s return with the requested items cradled in his hands. “It’s possible the lack of sensation might be due to the infection, the swelling of the wound due to trauma, or it could be…” 

Aramis trailed off before he could complete the thought that it might be because d’Artagnan’s back was damaged to the point he would never walk again. 

ooooooo 

The uneven line of subsequent dots that appeared across d’Artagnan’s back as a result of Aramis’s probing did little to reassure him. 

While the line where sensation ceased had dropped below the level of the bullet wound on the right side of d’Artagnan’s back, it had not done so by much. Athos hoped it didn’t mean what he thought it meant, but Aramis’s grim expression was telling, causing him no amount of guilt. 

“Well?” Porthos asked, always one to get to the point the fastest. 

Porthos was using dampened cloth to try and get some of the ink off his fingers. While he had closely watched for the barest hint of reaction or movement, Porthos had helped to leave small dots of ink where sensation had begun and ended. 

“I’m afraid it’s going to be a matter of wait-and-see from here on out. We must _not_ despair just yet,” Aramis said, then gestured to his patient. “More importantly, we must not let _d’Artagnan_ despair just yet. The injury site needs time to heal before any…permanent diagnosis can be made.” 

“So you don’t think this is permanent?” Athos asked, feeling his stomach turn in anticipation of the answer. 

“There’s no way of knowing.” Aramis rested his finger on the closest mark. “This is to help us track if any sensation comes back. The rest – whether or not he’ll ever walk again – is up to God. We can only hope and pray for a miracle.” 

“Our stubborn Gascon won’t let this get the best of him,” Porthos said. 

“I hope so,” Aramis quietly added, alerting both him and Porthos that there was something being left unsaid. 

“What happened with your friend, Aramis?” 

Aramis’s shoulders slumped, and the air seemed to leave his friend’s lungs in a rush as he sat down on the chair next to d’Artagnan’s bed. 

“He, uh… The damage to his back, in his case, ended up being permanent. Philippe was crippled* from the mid-back down. He couldn’t…”  

Aramis leaned forward and placed his elbow on his knees and then his hands on his head. After a careful breath, Aramis shifted so that his weight was on one elbow and looked up at him and Porthos. 

“One day, I was sent out on patrol, but when I came back, Philippe was…was gone.” 

“Gone,” Athos repeated, hoping he wasn’t correct in his assumption, yet knowing for someone like Aramis, who considered suicide to be a mortal sin— 

“Philippe killed himself. Someone – I never found out who – smuggled a pistol to him and…” 

Porthos moved to lay a hand on Aramis’s shoulder, which the marksman leaned into slightly. 

“That’s why,” Aramis began, before straightening up with a determined look in his eyes, “we must not let d’Artagnan despair of the outcome. Philippe’s wound was much closer to his spine; the physician removed broken pieces of bone… That was _not_ the case with d’Artagnan. The fact that the line is not even is… encouraging. There is still hope. I just pray my unskilled hands did not cause even more damage during treatment.” 

“Hey,” Porthos said, using the hand on Aramis’s shoulder to shake the man a little. “Don’t go thinkin’ like that.” 

Athos stood, went around the bed, and carefully sat on the edge so he could face Aramis. 

“Whether there is permanent damage or not”—Athos gently laid a hand on one of d’Artagnan’s legs—“this is _not_ your fault.” 

When Aramis didn’t look convinced, Athos tried a tactic his two friends had recently tried on him. 

“Aramis, what would’ve happened had you not treated him?” 

When Aramis did not immediately answer, Porthos shifted his hand to squeeze the back of the medic’s neck. “What would’a happened if you hadn’t taken the bullet out, or found that thread, or stitched him up?” 

“Porthos…” 

“Say it, Aramis,” Athos said, keeping eye contact. 

“He would already be dead!” Aramis abruptly stood, moving away from him and Porthos. “Is that what you wanted to hear? He would’ve died, but now I might have condemned him to a life where he cannot walk! A life he will come to regret and despair of! A life he will wish to end because I—” 

“No!” Athos said, interrupting Aramis’s wildly-gestured, yet provoked, outburst. 

“No, Aramis,” Porthos repeated. “Not you. The man who chose to shoot at Athos, _not_ you.” Before Athos could even begin to reconsider his level of fault, Porthos whirled around to face and point towards him. “And it’s not your fault either, Athos. Or mine,” he said pointing at himself. “We’ve been over this. Remember?” 

Porthos moved so that he could put a hand on each of his and Aramis’s shoulders.  

“You’re the one, Aramis, who said we need to wait and see, and we’ll do that, yeah? No jumping the gun, alright?” 

Athos found himself nodding in acknowledgment of Porthos’s words, while Aramis voiced his agreement with them. 

“He will walk again,” Aramis said, grasping the cross around his neck. “We just have to have faith.” 

“Amen,” Athos said, drawing looks of surprise from his friends who knew he didn’t have the best relationship with God. 

“Good,” Porthos said, rubbing his hands together. “Now that we got that settled… Let’s eat. I’m starvin’.” 

Athos couldn’t help the slight smile which graced his face for the first time in days, while Aramis outright laughed. 

“When are you not hungry?” 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Thirty: The Test 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :  
**

**_Crippled_ :** My apologies for the use of this word. I realize it can be offensive to some, but I found it to be more historically correct than ‘paralyzed’ because it is a word dating back to the 1600s. Crippled is an Old English word in use since around 950 AD. **  
**

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those in the U.S., Happy 4th of July! Have fun and stay safe! :o)
> 
> If you didn’t see my request at the end of the previous chapter, I’d appreciate it if you took a look, thanks. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	31. Chapter Thirty: The Test

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Thirty: The Test**

Athos was awakened by voices coming from the other side of the room. 

It had been his turn to use the second bed, and he had been grateful for it due to another headache that had crept up on him when he wasn’t paying attention. Thankfully, it was a mild one compared to some of the others he’d experienced since he’d been shot in the head, and he had been confident at the time that he only needed sleep to take care of it. Realizing his head felt fine, he lay in bed trying to decipher what the voices were saying. 

At first, he thought it was only Porthos and Aramis who were conversing with each other, but as soon as he heard d’Artagnan’s voice, he nearly fell out of the bed in his haste to see how the younger man was faring. 

Luckily, the others hadn’t yet noticed him, and he was able to stay mostly out of sight since no candles were lit on his side of the room. 

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis said, “do you remember what happened last time you were awake?” 

From his expression, d’Artagnan seemed confused before he shook his head no. 

 “You were beating on your legs,” Aramis said, managing to keep his voice calm. “Can you tell me why?” 

D’Artagnan looked up from hands which were clutching the blanket covering him. The confusion was now tinged with disbelief. 

“My legs?” D’Artagnan asked before his eyes suddenly went wide with shock, making Athos certain the younger man had remembered what he had done to himself. 

He saw Porthos tense as a result, as if the other man was waiting for the Gascon to suddenly fly off the handle, but d’Artagnan did not. Instead, Athos watched with trepidation as his friend let go of the blanket and ran his right hand over the top of his thigh. When the younger man’s brows deeply furrowed, and he then gripped his thigh, Athos was certain the situation was about to go sideways. 

Aramis laid a hand on top of d’Artagnan’s questing one, tacitly getting the younger man to stop probing what must, by now, be pretty impressive bruises under his braies, given the forceful way he had been striking them not that long ago. 

D’Artagnan shifted his hand out from under Aramis’s. It was obvious their friend was starting to panic, yet trying to hold back that rising tide at the same time. 

“What’s wrong with them?” d’Artagnan asked. 

“When you were shot in the back,” Aramis said, “the bullet lodged fairly close to your spine, causing some damage.” 

As Aramis began to explain, d’Artagnan’s breathing had started to get faster, and his hands clenched the blanket so tightly that his fingers were nearly white.  

His voice was getting more breathless as he asked, “Is it—is it permanent?” 

“I hope not,” Aramis replied, making Athos want to punch the other man for giving an answer like that. 

“Aramis,” Porthos said, warning tinging his voice. 

The two men glared at each other briefly before Aramis turned back to d’Artagnan and said, “I honestly do not know.” 

“Damn it, Aramis,” Athos said, gaining the attention of all three of the men. He gestured towards d’Artagnan. “Not helping.” 

Aramis turned back towards their young friend, and finally saw the panic so clearly running amok within d’Artagnan. Grabbing the closest wrist, Aramis said, “Calm yourself, d’Artagnan. Come on now, slow your breathing. Breathe.” 

Porthos crouched down and grasped one of d’Artagnan’s shoulders as Aramis tried to get the Gascon to breathe, while calmly attempting to explain it was too early to tell if the condition was permanent, that it was too early to despair. Nothing was helping stem the tide of panic, and Athos was no longer able to stay back, finally going to d’Artagnan’s bedside. 

It was a mistake. When d’Artagnan saw him, the younger man’s panic only increased. Athos quickly backed away, but it was too late, and the damage had been done. D’Artagnan was now beyond panicked and beyond being able to hear anything anyone was saying to him. 

Seconds later, d’Artagnan seemed no longer able to catch his breath. Then, without any warning, his eyes closed and he went limp. 

All three of them shouted the younger man’s name in alarm at the same time. If it hadn’t been for the almost immediate rise and fall of d’Artagnan’s chest, Athos imagined they all would have thought the worst. 

Aramis, who still had hold of one of d’Artagnan’s wrists, said, “His pulse is slowing down. I think he’ll be alright.” 

“Nothing’s alright about this damn situation,” Porthos said, backhanding Aramis’s shoulder. “And you didn’t help! What happened to not letting him despair?” 

“I know! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to make him worse.” Aramis ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think he’d panic quite so spectacularly before I could fully explain.” 

“That was my fault,” Athos said, feeling a new surge of guilt running through his veins, which resulted in completely wiping out his former resolve to be a better version of himself going forward. 

He rushed to the table and grabbed the bottle of wine sitting atop it. Uncorking it, he almost had it to his lips when someone snatched it out of his hand. 

“Hey!” Porthos said, sounding angry. “You don’t need that.” 

“You have no idea what I do or do not need, but right now I need that bottle of wine.” 

Athos made to snatch it out of Porthos’s hand, but the taller man kept it out of his reach. Growling in frustration, Athos stepped around Porthos and made his way towards the door. 

“Athos,” Aramis began, making him pause. “It was not your fault. I think this”—He gestured towards their unconscious friend—“would have happened regardless. It’s a lot to take in.” 

“I agree, Aramis. Finding out you are crippled _is_ quite a lot to take in,” Athos said, biting sarcasm lacing every word. Grabbing the doorknob and turning it, he added, “Knowing you are the cause, is _also_ a lot to take in.” 

As Athos started to open the door, Porthos said, “Don’t come back if you drink ‘til you’re drunk. He don’t need that on top of everythin’ else.” 

Without replying, Athos wrenched the door completely open and stormed out of the room, not daring to look back for fear of catching a glimpse of the friend he had hurt yet again. 

ooooooo 

He made his way to the inn’s common room, intending on drinking several bottles of wine dry. 

Luckily for him, he was able to quickly get some from the innkeeper, which he took over to the chair by the fireplace. 

Letting his body drop into the chair, he impatiently uncorked a wine bottle, honestly believing he could feel every part of him crying out for the alcohol within it. 

He drank several large gulps of wine, before he finally paused to take a breath. 

It was that brief, but necessary pause for air, which gave his mind the time to catch up to what his body was doing. 

He had promised to remain steadfast, to deny himself escape through wine and destructive means, and yet the first time he was truly tested, he had failed. 

When he had learned of d’Artagnan’s condition, he had somehow accepted it and was hopeful it was temporary. Yet, when he had to witness d’Artagnan’s struggle with the news that he might never walk again, and that his presence had only made the situation worse… 

It had destroyed that resolve, and his heart had broken. He couldn’t stand to see the younger man so panicked, so anguished, so…defeated. 

He had needed that wine, wanting to forget what he’d just seen. 

He still needed it, because the images were still too fresh in his mind. 

So he took another large gulp before pulling the bottle away from his lips. He stared at the bottle in his hand for several long moments, wondering how an inanimate object could seemingly be daring him to finish its contents. 

_Guilt. Anger. Grief. Frustration. Compassion._

He couldn’t seem to settle on any one emotion, and his mind’s eye kept replaying the scene he had so recently witnessed upstairs. 

All the while, he could hear the siren’s call of the wine in the bottle. 

_Shame._

Closing his eyes, he ran his free hand over his face then rubbed at his eyes. 

_Regret_. 

He lifted the half-full bottle to his lips, intending to finish it, but lowered it again.  Contemplating taking another drink, he then sighed before setting the bottle down on the floor beside his chair, determined to not touch it again. 

He couldn’t give up now – on himself or his friend – but he also couldn’t bring himself to go back upstairs. Not yet. 

He just needed a bit of time alone to reconstruct the steadfast commitment he so recently had let shatter into pieces at first testing. 

As he sat by the fire, contemplating the flames and thinking of his friend, he put the pieces back together one at a time, determined to not fail the next test. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Thirty-one: Explosion 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	32. Chapter Thirty-one: Explosion

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Thirty-One: Explosion**

The next time d’Artagnan awoke, he seemed clearer of mind and more accepting of his situation. To Athos’s mind, the younger man was a little too accepting of the possible prognosis Aramis had given him, considering how he’d panicked and lost consciousness the last time. D’Artagnan was acting almost like his usual self, though it was still very evident the younger man was continuing to recover from his recent fever. It was the gulf between “ _almost like_ ” and “ _just like_ ” that was making him worry all the more about his friend. 

Aramis had immediately wanted to check d’Artagnan’s wound, but the younger man appeared reluctant to oblige, though he hadn’t said as much aloud. Athos had noticed the many furtive glances made in his direction, and concluded it was his presence which was causing the issue. He thought about saying something, but didn’t want to start anything when d’Artagnan was still recovering from the shocking discovery of his inability to move his legs. Plus, given the fact that they had yet to clear the air about his memories and deplorable behavior, Athos thought d’Artagnan might be apprehensive about showing any weakness in front of him – anymore than he already had. 

Taking the hint, Athos mentioned needing to check the horses and left the room. Out of lingering guilt, he ended up spending extra time with d’Artagnan’s horse, grooming it with added care and diligence. He also made sure to give the horse the treat he had grabbed from the newly-arrived kitchen stock on his way out of the inn. As he fed it to the animal, he recalled the fact that its owner also had a particular fondness for apples. Perhaps he could make sure some apples were included with their next meal. D’Artagnan hadn’t had much to eat in a while, but he should be able to handle an apple. He made a mental note to ask Aramis’s opinion of the idea. 

Realizing he had been gone for quite a while, Athos returned to the room only to immediately feel there was a lot of tension between his three friends. Aramis had obviously finished examining d’Artagnan, and looked grim as well as upset. Porthos looked as if he would love to punch something – repeatedly and with a lot of force – until there was nothing left of it. D’Artagnan seemed unsettled, yet more subdued than ever, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. 

Athos didn’t need to be told that the exam had not yielded good news, and refrained from asking questions; the looks on his friends’ faces were enough for the moment. Besides, he was afraid he would be stonewalled regarding d’Artagnan’s condition at the younger man’s request. The idea hurt, but upon quick reflection, he decided it was only fair considering he’d required the same not too long ago about his own condition. 

Aramis, likely noting Porthos needed some sort of outlet, began to drag the larger man out of the room. Athos knew alcohol would be involved, and hoped the two would not cause too much trouble as they let off some steam. 

Only belatedly did Athos realize he would now be alone with d’Artagnan. He threw a panicked look towards Aramis as his friends left the room, but the other man only smirked and shut the door. Apparently, he was being “encouraged” to talk to d’Artagnan and inform the younger man of his returned memories. 

Turning from the closed door to look at d’Artagnan, he saw the other man was doing his best to sink into the bed and disappear. Athos could not discern whether the attitude was d’Artagnan’s attempt to avoid his notice, or if he truly did want to disappear once and for all. Because the latter was something he could not bear thinking about, he oddly hoped it was the former. 

After the way he had treated d’Artagnan, avoiding his notice had likely become second nature to the younger man. By now, the Gascon only expected punishment and cruelty from him – not respect or concern. 

These thoughts only served to remind him how he hadn’t deserved d’Artagnan’s sacrifice in the first place, which made him angry all of a sudden. D’Artagnan should not have had to pay the price for saving a worthless wretch like him. 

Only moments ago, he had planned to inform d’Artagnan about the return of his memories and apologize, but instead he did exactly what the younger man had probably been expecting from him from the moment the others had left. Athos let his anger at himself, and his fear and grief for d’Artagnan, explode outward to damage the younger man all over again. 

“What in the hell were you thinking?!” 

At his abrupt words, d’Artagnan’s head whipped up and shocked, yet confused, eyes met his. 

“What did you think you were doing?” Athos continued, unable to stop himself from reprimanding the younger man now that he’d started. “By going for me instead of the shooter, you got yourself shot and put us _both_ – perhaps _all_ of us – in danger.” 

“I was thinking that I was saving your life!” d’Artagnan retorted, anger now gracing his face. 

“And instead you ended your career as a Musketeer,” Athos said, hearing the cruel words coming out of his mouth yet still continuing his diatribe. “Your injury has jeopardized this mission. We _still_ do not know where the raiders are based, or who might be helping them.” 

By this time d’Artagnan had his mouth open as if wanting to speak though no words had as yet come out.  Still, Athos did not let up, though he dearly wished he could stop himself, but it was like his mouth had a mind of its own. 

“You were reckless, and now we are caring for you instead of carrying out our duty.” 

D’Artagnan looked down at his hands for a moment before meeting his eyes once again. “Well, you won’t have to worry about me making any more mistakes from now on, _Sir_. You wanted me gone from the Musketeers, and my _incompetence_ has made your wish come true.” 

The last few words sounded as if the younger man had recently swallowed glass, there was so much emotion in them. The brokenness of d’Artagnan’s voice finally managed to break the spell which seemed to have been cast upon him. 

“D’Artagnan, I—” 

Interrupting him, the Gascon’s next words managed to stoke the fire that had just seconds ago been banked within him. “And, if it will help any, Sir, I think the raiders are based north of here in one of the villages between this one and Honfleur which have not yet been attacked.” 

“And you know this how?” 

“It is a guess based on their choice in attack pattern.” 

Athos was suddenly reminded of how unhelpful d’Artagnan had been during their planning session in Ponteau de Mer, recalling how frustrated he’d been with the apparent lack of attention to the mission and how d’Artagnan had seemed uncaring of what was going on. Those thoughts only served to further fan the embers of his anger back to life. 

“And why didn’t you share this information with us earlier? We could all have been killed in that ambush.” 

D’Artagnan briefly looked away towards the window before he sighed and said, “I was going to, but we were attacked before I could.” 

“ ‘Was going to’? There should not have been any delay. You know better than this!” 

“Would you have even listened? Would you have even taken me seriously?” 

“Of cour—” 

D’Artagnan loudly scoffed and shook his head slightly, interrupting him and making him pause. 

He realized d’Artagnan was absolutely right, and hated that fact. He wanted to think he could have been more professional during this mission, and normally he could be for the most part, but the _him_ without his memories most certainly would not have seriously listened to anything d’Artagnan would’ve tried to contribute. 

Athos was uncertain where his next words had come from, but he immediately recognized they were wrong and regretted them even as he said them. 

“You see what your delay has cost you. If you’d—” 

“Get out.” 

“What?” Athos asked, not quite hearing what the younger man had said. 

“Leave!” 

Before Athos could dig the hole any deeper for himself, Aramis and Porthos returned to the room. 

Not wanting to widen the gulf between him and d’Artagnan any more than it already was, Athos took advantage of the return of their friends to leave the room, pushing past them without uttering a word of explanation. 

The moment he stepped outside and into the hallway, he wished he could take everything he’d just said back and start that conversation all over again, but it was too late. He had ruined any chance he had of reconciliation. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Thirty-two: The Missive 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	33. Chapter Thirty-two: The Missive

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Thirty-two: The Missive  
**

He went downstairs with the intention of getting out of the inn, needing to be somewhere – anywhere – else after what he’d just done. He most certainly did not want to be anywhere near a supply of wine, determined to not fail this next test of his resolve. However, the innkeeper intercepted him just as he reached the bottom step. 

“This just arrived,” Gérard said, handing him a sealed missive. “A messenger is waiting outside.” 

Athos thanked Gérard, and broke the wax seal as he moved towards a corner of the main room, so he could read the missive in relative privacy. 

The mayor of Ponteau de Mer was putting together a small detachment of the city’s militia, which was already heading towards Saint Sulpice. Several of the men, who now lived in Ponteau de Mer, were from some of the nearby villages. The idea behind sending the squad was in hopes one of the men might be able to recognize one of the raiders who had been terrorizing villages up and down the coast and pinpoint their home base. 

Time was of the essence, because every hour the bodies were out in the open, the faster they would become completely unrecognizable. As it was, it had already been long enough for the possibility of there being little left to help identify the men the four of them had killed during the skirmish that had cost d’Artagnan the use of his legs. 

No reply was needed, because the messenger was to await his fellow militiamen. The mayor had requested that Athos and his fellow Musketeers lead the men to the bodies, and then, if anyone was recognized, continue on towards that man’s village. It seemed they had run out of time to regroup, and were being called to finish the mission Captain Tréville had sent the four of them on. 

Athos went outside to talk to the militiaman, whose name he didn’t bother to learn, and found out that the rest of the troop was not far behind and they were to meet at the main road. Despite d’Artagnan’s grave injury, and as much as he didn’t want to leave, especially after the words they’d just had, Athos knew the mission must go on. 

They had a duty to finish this cursed mission. Or rather, _he_ had a duty to finish the mission. In his mind, Aramis and Porthos had a higher mission – making sure d’Artagnan continued to recover and keeping the younger man’s spirits up. In his worst nightmares, they had another task – protecting d’Artagnan from harm while the Gascon couldn’t quite protect himself. 

After talking to the militiaman, Athos bowed his head and ran his right hand over his face, before using it to rub his eyes. He was definitely _not_ looking forward to the next ten minutes or so. 

ooooooo 

The following thirteen minutes went about as well as he thought they would – which was not at all well. 

He’d made sure to not go back upstairs without some wine for Aramis and Porthos and broth for d’Artagnan, knowing as he retrieved the items, that they were a poor offering in exchange for what he was about to say. 

When he entered the room, Aramis and Porthos had been clustered around a quiet and dejected-looking d’Artagnan, the two seeming very frustrated. Perhaps they were frustrated at him for letting his fear and guilt speak such harsh words to the younger man. Though, in all honesty, he would have expected a punch to the jaw first thing when he returned to the room. 

The fact that it hadn’t come spoke volumes. Or rather, that d’Artagnan had _not_ spoken volumes. Unless they’d overheard his words, Porthos and Aramis would likely have no idea what had been said between him and the younger man. Unfortunately, he could remember every damned word, and knew the same was true for d’Artagnan. 

When he shared the news about the mayor’s missive, Aramis and Porthos immediately protested the need for a Musketeer to accompany the militiamen. Athos reminded them that someone needed to lead the troops back to the scene of the attack. Informing his friends that he was going – and going alone – garnered the expected reaction. 

However, he noticed d’Artagnan never said a word and hardly reacted to the news that he was going to be leaving. In fact, he noticed a slight grimace and an increase of guilt in the younger man’s face. After what he’d so recently said, d’Artagnan was more than likely remembering his scathing words about jeopardizing the mission. 

“There is no time for a debate, and no use arguing, I am the one to go, and that is final,” he said as he finished collecting what he would be needing for the next few days. 

Just as he was cinching his weapons belt more securely about his waist, he caught sight of Aramis slipping something into his saddlebags. When Aramis looked up, they met eyes and the medic gestured towards his own head. Understanding what he’d been given, he smiled slightly and nodded his head in thanks. 

There were so many things he wanted to say, so many things he _should_ say, but there was no more time left; he soon had to rendezvous with the militiamen. 

Of all the things he could have said, his brain chose one of the worst options. 

He looked at d’Artagnan. “You will do what Aramis says, alright?” 

D’Artagnan’s eyes lifted just enough that Athos thought the younger man was looking at his chin. “Yes, Sir.” 

Athos did his best not to flinch at the reminder he had still not told the Gascon about the return of his memories, and turned to leave the room, choosing to ignore the twin expressions of dawning comprehension on Porthos and Aramis’s faces. 

ooooooo 

He had barely made it out of the room before Porthos caught up to him. 

“Didn’t you tell him?” 

“That I’m leaving? You were—” 

Porthos grabbed his doublet with both hands and shoved him into the opposite wall. The movement hadn’t been meant to injure, but to warn him to not be evasive with any future replies. He should’ve known he would not be able to get away with what had been said – and not said – between him and d’Artagnan. 

“Don’t,” Porthos said, a clear warning in his voice accompanying his actions. “Does. He. Know?” 

Each over-enunciated word of the question sounded to his ears as if a hammer were striking an anvil.  Shame filled him, and he found it difficult to meet Porthos’s eyes. Belatedly, he realized the lack of eye contact was practically mimicking the scene that had so recently occurred between him and d’Artagnan before he had left their room. 

“No,” Athos admitted before bringing his hands up to gently grasp Porthos’s wrists, prompting his friend to let go of his clothing. 

“Why the hell not?” Porthos asked, following as he continued to make his way out of the inn. 

“It…never came up.” 

A hand grabbing his shoulder forced him to stop and turn around. 

“Never came up!” Porthos said, obviously trying to keep his voice down and only partially succeeding due to the anger which coated every syllable. “We gave you plenty of time to tell him! What happened?” 

Athos sighed. He didn’t want to recount yet another failure of his in communicating with d’Artagnan, but he knew Porthos wouldn’t let the matter drop. 

“We…spoke on other matters first. I said some things I truly regret.” 

Porthos put his hands on his hips, bowed his head slightly, sighing in resignation. “Let me guess… The first thing that should’a come out of your mouth was: I got my memories back. But instead, you got angry at him for stepping in front of that bullet. Am I close?” 

Athos felt it would be a waste of time to reply, and resumed walking towards the stable to fetch his horse. From behind him, Porthos muttered a string of rather creative curses. 

“You’re a coward,” Porthos said after a moment before following in his wake. 

“No. I am a Musketeer. A Musketeer who was tasked with a mission that still needs to be completed. _You_ know this.”—He pointed towards the direction of their room—“ _They_ know this. Yes, the timing is…unfortunate, but we have no choice.” 

“But we do have a choice! You stay, and I go!” 

When he entered the stable, he was relieved to see his horse had been made ready so quickly. He swiftly attached his saddlebags and made some adjustments. As he mounted, Porthos grabbed the bridle. 

“Your head…” 

“I will have to make do. Aramis gave me some medicine for my head pains. I don’t like it, but Tréville put me in charge. I must go.” 

He could see that Porthos still had one card left to play in a game they both knew Athos would win regardless. 

“Then, let me come with you. You shouldn’t be going alone.” 

“I won’t be alone. The detachment of militia from Ponteau de Mer will be with me.” 

“That ain’t what I meant, and you know it!” 

Athos laid a hand on the one Porthos had on his horse’s bridle. “Porthos, d’Artagnan needs Aramis, and you know how they both can get. They both need you. More importantly, we still do not know who the informant was. I don’t want to chance someone trying something. D’Artagnan can’t properly defend himself right now. I _need_ to know he is safe.” 

Porthos removed his hand from the bridle and looked away for a moment. Athos knew he had won his argument, but it did nothing to settle the growing feeling of uneasiness in his gut. 

“Fine, but you had better come back in one piece.” 

“I will do my best. I have unfinished business.” 

Porthos nodded and then patted his knee. “You should’a told him.” 

“I know.” Athos reached out to stroke the neck of his horse in an attempt to calm himself. “You’ll have to do it in my stead.” 

“He won’t believe us.” 

Athos wanted to refute that statement, but he couldn’t. He’d done his utmost to tear d’Artagnan down when he’d had amnesia. When Aramis and Porthos told him about his returned memories, the younger man would think they were exaggerating in an attempt to lift his spirits. He knew d’Artagnan, and was pretty sure he could correctly predict the outcome of that future conversation. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

“Yeah, I know.” 

As he spurred his horse into a gallop, he heard Porthos call out. “Be safe!” 

Athos was well aware of the fact that he should not have let his temper fly unchecked and made a better effort to tell d’Artagnan about his returned memories, but it was too late now. They needed to finish this cursed mission so that they could finally go home. 

As he focused on what he needed to do next, Athos promised himself that he would fix things between him and d’Artagnan when he returned. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Thirty-three: Identification 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	34. Chapter Thirty-three: Identification

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  Warning: There are brief descriptions of decomposing bodies and vomit in this chapter.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Thirty-three: Identification  
**

Despite knowing he must fulfill the mission he and his friends had been sent on, Athos hated the way he’d left things between him and d’Artagnan.  He also most certainly had not liked leaving his friends to break the news about his memories to d’Artagnan. 

He shouldn’t have let his emotions have free reign like that, shouldn’t have let his guilt over d’Artagnan being severely injured, and perhaps permanently crippled, get in the way of revealing that he’d regained what he hoped were the majority of his memories. Instead, he’d yelled at his friend, which must have only reinforced d’Artagnan’s perception of his continued animosity towards the younger man. 

As he rode towards the site of the ambush, the site where d’Artagnan had taken a bullet meant for him, Athos thought about the past weeks which had led up to this current phase of the mission. 

Despite Porthos and Aramis having convinced him he was not directly to blame for d’Artagnan’s injury, the farther away he got from his friends, the more he felt he was at fault. He was in charge of the mission, therefore the fault for anything that went wrong lay with him. He hadn’t considered the idea that his migraines would compromise the mission, but they had in many small ways, including not figuring out earlier that there had to be an accomplice of some sort. He should have known there could have been an ambush because of that accomplice, but he had not, and d’Artagnan had paid the price. Where guilt and shame had not taken over within his heart, mind and soul, regret was there to fill in the remainder. 

He dearly wanted – needed – to turn back, but duty carried him away from his friends and away from his chance of reconciliation with d’Artagnan. Every league he traveled farther away from the inn left him feeling as if reconciliation was slipping out of his grasp more and more – if he hadn’t already completely obliterated his chance. 

Athos wasn’t sure if he even deserved any understanding or forgiveness regarding his actions. He was aware everything that had happened between them might be too much for most people to forgive. D’Artagnan was generally forgiving of the lesser things, but this chasm between them might be just too great to bridge in the long run. Their friendship had never been tested to this degree in the past. And, if he were so fortunate as to receive even the smallest measure of forgiveness, he was certain it would not come all at once. 

On the other hand, he honestly didn’t know what he would do if d’Artagnan did not forgive him. He reminded himself of his earlier idea to exile himself from his friends as d’Artagnan had done. Another option was for him to leave the Musketeers entirely and find something else to do with his life. 

Perhaps he could pay penance for his deeds by returning to his life as a comte and rebuilding his chateau. Taking back responsibility for his ancestral lands, and the people living upon them, would be absolute torture for him in so many ways, and therefore a perfect punishment for him. 

As they moved closer to the area where the ambush had taken place, Athos forced his mind to stay in the present and focus on his current task. The faster he ended this, the quicker he could get back to d’Artagnan and attempt to live a life worthy of d’Artagnan’s sacrifice. He would begin by doing all in his power to reconcile with d’Artagnan. 

ooooooo 

The men that he and his friends had left dead, and untouched, due to their need to quickly take care of their seriously wounded brother did not look – or smell – the best, but they were still, for the most part, recognizable. Thankfully, the scavenger animals had not been overly aggressive as of yet, and those raiders who had died face down were in the best condition for possible identification. Those corpses had the best chance of being recognized by one of the militiamen. 

Briefly, Athos wondered which of the men had shot d’Artagnan, wishing he could’ve been the one to cut the man down, but he tore his thoughts away, choosing to focus on directing the militiamen to gather the raiders’ bodies together. Those with the strongest stomachs, and least sensitive noses, gathered the bodies and did a quick search for clues. Then, all of the men took turns checking the dead men’s faces to see if any of them could be recognized and traced to a specific village. 

Athos was standing upwind, watching the grim procession, when a tall, thin man with reddish-brown hair was making his way down the line of dead bandits. At one point, the young man stopped and bent over to get a closer look at one of the bodies. All of a sudden, the youth paled and then hastily turned away to vomit. From the reaction, it wasn’t too difficult to guess one of the bodies had been recognized. 

Athos gave the young man time to compose himself. “You know that man, Monsieur…?” 

“Thierry,” the militiaman replied before nodding and swallowing thickly as if trying to keep from vomiting once again. “Ye-Yes, I-I do. Jean-Luc.” Thierry gestured towards the body. “Actually, I’m not sure which one this is. Brothers. Twins. Jean _and_ Luc, but we always called them both Jean-Luc, even if they weren’t together. I was friends with both when I were a young lad. One time—” 

To prevent more rambling, Athos asked, “Is your family originally from Ponteau de Mer?” 

“No, Sir. My family moved away from Berville* when I was young to help my uncle with his business; he’s a ferrier and blacksmith*.” 

“Are you saying these men are from Berville?” 

“Jean-Luc is the only one I truly recognize, but at least two others seem a little familiar, but”—Thierry pointed towards the haphazard row of bodies—“the condition of some of the…the, uh”—The militiaman gestured towards his own face.—“makes it difficult to know for sure.” 

Knowing Thierry recognized, or thought he recognized, three of the men, Athos called to mind the map of the area that he had memorized. He realized all the disparate information fell into place with this latest clue. Mentally, he cursed the lingering effects of his head wound which had kept him from seeing the bigger picture sooner. If he hadn’t been hampered by them, then perhaps he could have figured out the situation in time to prevent d’Artagnan from getting hurt. 

D’Artagnan had been right. The raiders were based out of one of the villages between Ponteau de Mer and Honfleur that hadn’t yet been attacked. The raiders had been so haphazard in their pattern in order to disguise where they had come from. Had he been in his right mind at the time d’Artagnan had come up with this theory, Athos would have listened to the younger man’s reasoning. Granted, without further evidence, there could still have been the possibility the raiders were from one of the villages farther to the southwest or from across La Manche, but he would have considered the theory carefully and kept in mind. 

Purely as a Musketeer, he was perhaps a little bit disappointed with d’Artagnan for not immediately passing on his theory. However, as a flawed man himself, Athos could definitely understand why the Gascon had been reluctant to do so. His recent actions and attitude towards d’Artagnan had been such that his friend had stopped attempting to directly communicate with him unless absolutely necessary.  The well-intentioned distance d’Artagnan had also been keeping from Aramis and Porthos had likely not helped in prompting him to share any theories with the three of them. 

Regardless, d’Artagnan should have tried, should have said something to them, and he in turn should have been more receptive towards anything mission-related from the younger man. Duty should have taken precedence over their differences. Athos shook his head and forced these thoughts to the back of his mind. 

He gave the militiamen fifteen minutes to rest after completing their gruesome task, and then ordered the men to mount up and ride towards Berville. It was beyond the time to finish this cursed mission. **  
**

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Thirty-four: There and Back Again 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**_Berville_ :** Listed only as Berville on my map of the Duchy of Normandy on pages 216-217 of my edition of the _Atlas Maior_ (See Chapter Four for the main note about the atlas.). The village’s actual name is Berville-sur-Mer. It is located along the Seine in the Eure department of Normandy. 

**_“ferrier and blacksmith”_ :** _Ferrier_ spelled with an ‘e’ is the Middle French spelling of the word: farrier. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a _farrier_ is “one who shoes horses; a shoeing-smith; hence, also one who treats the diseases of horses”. Along with making and putting shoes on the horses, _farriers_ were experts in hoof care and could tend to all aspects of the horses’ care. _Farrier_ work is a type of _blacksmithing_ , and _blacksmithing_ is a type of _farrier_ work. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celticgal1041... Also, thanks to Helensg over at fanfiction.net for pointing out something I needed to fix.


	35. Chapter Thirty-four: There and Back Again

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Thirty-four: There and Back Again**

As he and the militiamen rode towards Berville, Athos thought about his brothers back in Saint Sulpice. Guilt flared up within him when those thoughts strayed towards d’Artagnan. Back when Porthos and Aramis had talked to him about having misplaced guilt regarding d’Artagnan being shot on his behalf, he had believed them and had felt some of the weight lift off his shoulders. But the longer he was away, the more his guilt seemed to seep through the barriers his friends had helped him to erect against it. He couldn’t seem to get past the fact that his friend was suffering – and had been suffering for far too long – because of him. 

He wondered if Aramis and Porthos had informed d’Artagnan of his returned memories, feeling a momentary inrush of remorse for not being the one to tell the younger man. Would d’Artagnan even care? Was their friendship too broken for such news to matter any longer? 

Athos also dreaded the idea of returning to his friends, and finding any number of nightmare scenarios had come to pass. The worst was losing d’Artagnan, and that did not only mean losing his friend to death. 

Aside from the absolute worst-case scenario of d’Artagnan dying, what if the Gascon never regained the use of his legs? The Musketeers would lose a brother soldier; one Athos still believed had the potential to be amongst the greatest. If d’Artagnan would let him, he would help the younger man figure out a new way to get through life. He had managed to inadvertently find a new path with the Musketeers after his own life had come crashing down around him, and thought he might be able to help d’Artagnan find his own way going forward. One thing he promised himself he would never again do was to abandon his friend; even if the younger man no longer wanted him in his life, he would find a way.  

D’Artagnan had lost so much in life, and especially in the past year, that Athos could not bear the thought of the Gascon no longer being a Musketeer, particularly after all the younger man’s hard work and sacrifice. There wasn’t much a man without the use of both of his legs could do to support himself, but there was some hope for the future in that there would be a pension. There would be some money as one of the King’s favorites, as well as being invalided out of service in the line of duty. 

However, for far too long, d’Artagnan had just barely been getting by financially speaking. Athos feared the pension would not be enough to sustain the younger man in the long run, which was why he was not going to count on it. He intended to share what money he had with d’Artagnan, even if he had to do it in a roundabout way. He was determined to find ways around d’Artagnan’s pride over accepting charity. His friend could be stubborn, but then again so could he. It was just another of the ways they were alike. 

ooooooo 

The next few days were a challenge for him, to say the least. As much as he wanted to focus on completing the mission, his thoughts kept drifting to the brothers he’d left behind. While at the village of Berville, and dealing with the situation he had found there, he was better able to keep his mind on his duty. 

It was at night, when he was supposed to be sleeping, that he couldn’t control the direction his thoughts took. 

During a mission, sometimes sleep would be delayed while he deliberated upon strategies and contingencies related to bringing it to an end, but his mind was still able to quiet enough for rest, if not sleep, once he put those thoughts in order. It was when the ghosts of his past life as comte chose to haunt him, that he had troubles staying asleep and used wine, not only to forget, but as a soporific. 

This time it was not his failures as a comte haunting him, but rather his actions since his head injury. Guilt and regret were there in the background as usual, but it was his mind’s insistence on fully recollecting every facet of every negative and damaging interaction he’d had with d’Artagnan which plagued his nighttime hours. As a result, sleep was scarce, and he couldn’t help but think he had deservedly inherited d’Artagnan’s problem with insomnia. 

The militiamen had brought some ale and wine with them, sharing it nightly with their evening meal. The siren call of wine once again beckoned him, begging him to indulge and forget, but he held on to his promise, only taking a small amount of ale with his food. 

The unease he had felt upon leaving his friends, which he now recognized was the reason why he had wanted Porthos to remain behind in Saint Sulpice, continued to grow bit by bit the longer he was away from them. That unease spiked when neither he nor the militiamen could locate the last surviving active member of the raiders. A thorough search of the surrounding area was unable turn up any clues as to the man’s whereabouts. 

Without any evidence to suggest otherwise, Athos believed the final raider had escaped. Running as fast and as far away as possible from the area would be the only way the man could avoid capture and the hangman’s noose that awaited the raider if the fugitive were ever caught. Lingering with the idea that he could return home someday would likely be suicide given all the raiders had done to terrorize the villages in the area. 

Thierry and a couple of other militiamen volunteered to maintain a presence in the village for a short while in case the escaped raider attempted to return to his home. Several others were assigned to search the countryside for the criminal. With these bases covered, Athos considered the mission Captain Tréville had given them to be over, and the presence of Musketeers no longer needed. 

There was no invasion of Englishmen from across La Manche. They had figured out who was doing the raiding and had managed to kill all but one of the raiders. The raiders’ home base had been found, and the likelihood of future attacks was practically nil because so many of Berville’s young men had perished in the attack. In fact, it would take a miracle for the village to survive more than a year. Only one of the raiders had survived, escaping to parts unknown. 

Their mission was over, and steps had been taken to try and apprehend the man that had escaped, yet he felt as if he hadn’t done enough, that he’d failed in his duty somehow. The feeling that all was not quite right, and that he’d missed something, continued to plague him as he rode back towards the inn where he hoped d’Artagnan was still alive and continuing to improve. 

As he travelled southeast, he prayed for two miracles: that d’Artagnan would fully recover from his injury, and that the younger man would someday forgive him, calling him ‘friend’ once more. If he were honest with himself, Athos would gladly accept a simple truce between them. It seemed too much to ask for a chance to work their way back towards the friendship they’d once had. 

Riding through the countryside towards Saint Sulpice, Athos started gathering and ordering his thoughts for the long overdue talk between him and d’Artagnan. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Thirty-five: Misconstrued 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone guess what soundtracks I was listening to when I came up with the idea for the chapter title? 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	36. Chapter Thirty-five: Misconstrued

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit shorter in length, but I thought worked better on its own rather than trying to force it to mesh with the next chapter.   
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Thirty-five:  Misconstrued**

The uneasiness that had followed Athos throughout the past several days had never let up. At first, he thought it was due to continuing the mission without his brothers and with men who were untested in his eyes. But ever since he and the militiamen had finished the mission, and those not remaining behind had ridden away from Berville, Athos continued to grow ever more certain his continued uneasiness had something to do with d’Artagnan. 

He’d dismissed the remaining militiamen at the main road to Saint Sulpice, and continued the rest of the way towards the inn at a fast pace, anxious to make sure d’Artagnan was still alive and continuing to recover. Logic told him Porthos and Aramis would’ve sent a messenger to him had things deteriorated to the point where…where he didn’t want to complete that thought. Yet, everything else inside him said something was or had gone wrong. 

When he finally arrived, Athos quickly dismounted, tossed his horse’s reins towards the stable boy without really looking, and started jogging towards the main building. Without paying heed to anyone or anything except the route to his end destination, Athos charged up the stairs and down the hall towards his room.  

Not bothering with knocking, he entered the room, only to find it completely empty and both beds neatly made, the smell of lavender permeating the space from the stems left lying on the pillows. His attention was immediately drawn to the area between what should’ve been d’Artagnan’s bed and the nearest wall. When he stepped closer, Athos saw a barely-there yet telltale, reddish-brown stain that no amount of scrubbing had been able to get out. 

Almost before he could truly comprehend what the evidence was telling him, his legs suddenly felt weak and his knees had hit the floor next to the still-drying spot on the floor. His stomach lurched, his heart had started beating too fast, and he wasn’t able to hear for the loud buzzing in his ears. 

_Dead…  
_

_D’Artagnan is…is…  
_

_…dead.  
_

_No. It can’t be.  
_

_God, please…  
_

_…No._

With the rest of his body going out of control, Athos had barely noticed when his lungs had decided to join in. Breathing had suddenly become optional, but he couldn’t seem to care, because d’Artagnan— 

Something large and bulky abruptly moved in front of him, blocking the sight of the spot on the wooden floor.  At first he couldn’t comprehend what it was, and tried to moving in order to see around it, but he was not able to do so. There were multiple, distorted sounds he couldn’t comprehend while weights landed on his shoulders, holding him place. 

He heard more distorted sounds before he was hit in the stomach, which caused him to cough and then take a ragged breath. It was as if breathing had once again become second nature. He managed another breath, and then another… Minutes, weeks, years, eons went by before his lungs no longer felt as if they wanted to burst. 

With his lungs working again, and the buzzing in his ears starting to recede, Athos’s eyes started to focus. The bulk in front of him had taken a familiar, and welcome, shape: Porthos. 

Once the sight of his friend before him had sharpened, he realized Porthos’s lips were moving. And when he realized that, the distorted sounds instantly became clear. 

“…hear me, Athos! He’s not dead! D’Artagnan’s not dead; I swear to God! Athos?” 

“Porthos. D’Artagnan...” 

“He’s alive!” 

That couldn’t be right. The room… The stain… 

“Athos, look at me.” He did his best to comply as Porthos continued to speak. “He’s alive and in the room across the hall. You understand?” 

“But…” 

Dazedly, Athos watched as Porthos straightened before his right arm was grabbed and he was pulled to his feet. 

Porthos turned him towards the door and started to drag him out of the room. “Come on. You ain’t going to believe me until I prove it to you.” 

Before he could protest in any way, Porthos was dragging him to the open doorway opposite their room. Porthos was the first to enter the chamber, but when he passed through the opening and saw d’Artagnan _alive,_ and apparently sleeping on the only bed in the room, his knees once again lost their ability to hold him up due to the sheer relief spreading like wildfire throughout his body. 

Porthos caught him before his knees could once again hit the floor. He heard Aramis exclaim his name before another set of hands latched onto him and he was suddenly sinking into the only chair in the room. 

Athos leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, dropping his head and trying to get his breathing back to normal once again. A hand dropped onto the back of his neck and squeezed, while another came to a rest on his shoulder. Unable to deny himself the comfort his friends were offering him, Athos stayed still and stared at d’Artagnan’s sleeping form while Porthos explained what had just happened to Aramis. 

Aramis left the hand on his shoulder in place while he crouched down next to him. 

“D’Artagnan was attacked. But—” Athos’s whole body tensed up at his friend’s words, and the fingers of Aramis’s hand pressed firmly into his shoulder, providing grounding he sorely needed. “But, as you can see, he is alive. He acquired a dagger cut to his torso and killed a man, but he is fine.” 

Athos closed his eyes and released a breath as he lowered his head to rest on his arms. D’Artagnan was alive. Alive! He couldn’t remember ever being more thankful to God, except when Thomas was born and his mother had told him he was a big brother. 

“Athos, did you hear what I said?” 

He straightened up enough to look Aramis in the eyes. “Yes, Aramis, I heard you.” 

As soon as he had said those words, questions began to flood his mind, but it all boiled to down to the one he asked. 

“What in the hell happened?!” 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Thirty-six:  Seeing Ghosts 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	37. Chapter Thirty-six: Seeing Ghosts

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Thirty-six:  Seeing Ghosts**

“Athos!” Aramis said as he stood. “I get that you’ve just suffered a shock, but please keep your voice down. D’Artagnan needs the rest.” 

Athos followed Aramis’s gaze over to the bed where d’Artagnan was currently asleep. Or was he unconscious? And he must be more exhausted than he thought, because he must have imagined seeing one of d’Artagnan’s legs moving just a second ago. He still had no clue what had happened except that someone’s blood— 

He sat up and eyed Porthos and then Aramis as he asked, “The blood. Is it his?” 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look. To his practiced eye, it seemed as if the two men were deciding who was going to relay what happened. Apparently, Aramis was elected, if the evil eye he briefly gave Porthos was any indication. 

“It’s not all his blood. It’s a mostly shallow cut; very few stitches. The intruder—” 

“What intruder?” 

“If you’d shut your trap, you’d find out,” Porthos said, grabbing Athos and forcing him out of the room. They were now back to where they had come from just minutes before, presumably to keep from disturbing d’Artagnan. 

He glanced back to see if Aramis had followed them, which would have left d’Artagnan on his own, but his friend had not. The doors to both rooms were open, and Aramis was leaning against the door jamb of the other room, looking ready to act as both sentinel and support as needed. 

“Me and Aramis were downstairs getting dinner and—” 

“You left him _alone_?!” 

“Relax, Athos,” Aramis said, lifting a hand in a placating gesture. “D’Artagnan was just feeling a little…overwhelmed and wanted some time to himself.” 

Athos glared at Porthos. “We discussed this before I left.” 

“But he threatened us with animal husbandry,” Porthos countered as if that explained everything. 

“You know as well as we do how d’Artagnan can wield stories about his days on the farm almost better than he can a sword,” Aramis chimed in before his face scrunched up in disgust and he mock shuddered. 

Porthos put his hands on his hips and chuckled, “Brat knows what he’s doing there, don’t he?” 

Athos couldn’t take the banter any longer. “You left him defenseless!” 

“D’Artagnan might have been alone, but he was _not_ defenseless,” Aramis said before gesturing towards the man only he could currently see. “ _He_ is the one who killed the intruder.” 

“We found d’Artagnan on the ground holding a knife, and the intruder dead where you saw that blood stain. No clue who he was,” Porthos said before adding, “Robber maybe?” 

“What did d’Artagnan say?”  Athos asked, rubbing his temple at the headache that was threatening to build. 

“He hasn’t yet. We were a little more concerned with helping him and treating his injury. He’ll tell us when he’s ready and able.” Aramis’s attention was caught, and he left the doorway to fully enter the other room. 

“The innkeeper, Gérard, loaned us the other room while this one was being cleaned up.” Porthos pointed towards the drying floorboards. “We were just waiting for the floor to dry a bit more before moving back in.” 

Athos barely heard what Porthos had said about the rooms, because his instincts were telling him that this was _not_ a simple robbery. The thought sent his mind theory-spinning as he considered several possibilities. Then it hit him. If it wasn’t a robbery gone wrong, then the only real conclusion was— 

“Porthos, where did you put the body?” Athos asked, praying what he was thinking was wrong. For, if he was right, then he had played a hand in hurting d’Artagnan all over again. 

“What? The body?  I’m not—” 

“Damn it, Porthos! I need to see—” Athos didn’t bother explaining any further, and dashed out of the room. Due to the sounds of boots hitting the wooden stairs, he knew Porthos was following along behind him. 

Once downstairs, he quickly found the innkeeper, and inquired about the intruder’s body. After several stops and starts, Athos eventually managed to put eyes on the dead man. 

Recognizing him, or at least recognizing the features before him, Athos felt himself pale as he stood back up. He must not have been too steady on his feet, because Porthos had placed a supporting hand on his shoulder. 

“You alright?” Porthos asked. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“You could say that,” Athos replied. 

“Do you know this man?” Porthos asked, sounding annoyed he didn’t know what was going on. 

“Yes,” Athos said, then shook his head. “No.” 

“Well, which is it?” 

“Both. And because of my dereliction of duty, d’Artagnan was hurt – again!” 

“Derelic—” 

Athos turned back towards the inn, ignoring Porthos’s questions and pleas to stop. He knew he would have to eventually explain himself, but first he had to see d’Artagnan again. He needed reassurance his actions, or rather inactions, had not done further permanent damage to the younger man. 

ooooooo 

Gérard, the innkeeper, intercepted the two of them when they returned, and informed them that he had helped Aramis move d’Artagnan back into their original room. 

Athos tersely thanked the man and headed upstairs, while he heard Porthos offer more effusive thanks. He rushed up the stairs but, when he reached their room, he suddenly became hesitant to open the door. As much as he wanted to see d’Artagnan, he was also uncertain he was truly welcome. 

A long arm reached around him to grab the door handle. “You’re just as bad as he was*.” 

Before he could ask about the cryptic comment Porthos had just made, the door was open and he was face-to-face with a groggy-looking, but awake d’Artagnan. 

Aramis turned towards them with a slightly annoyed look on his face. “And where did you gentlemen rush off to?” 

Porthos jerked a thumb towards him. “Athos knows the dead guy.” 

Surprise erupted on both Aramis and d’Artagnan’s faces while Athos said, “Porthos, that’s not helpful.” 

“Well you do know him, or not know him, or...”—Porthos shrugged—“Actually, I’m not sure.” 

“As much fun as it would be to listen to you two going back and forth, I’ve ordered some food.” Aramis pointed a finger at d’Artagnan. “Which you will eat.” His friend then vaguely gestured towards both him and d’Artagnan. “Explanations can wait until after, agreed?” 

“Agreed,” Athos said, more than happy for the reprieve. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Thirty-seven: Debrief 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**_“You’re just as bad as he was.”_ : **A minor reference to “Chapter Nine: Then and Now” when d’Artagnan was reluctant to enter the room where both Athos and Porthos lay injured. I went with the assumption that Aramis told Porthos about the incident. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	38. Chapter Thirty-seven: Debrief

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Thirty-seven:  Debrief**

Once the food had arrived, Athos noticed just how hungry he was. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten and couldn’t. 

While they ate, conversation was at a minimum, but Athos had noticed that d’Artagnan had yet to contribute anything. In fact, the younger man had yet to say anything in his presence beyond “yes” and “no” or variations thereof. The lack of interaction, even with Aramis and Porthos, worried him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if d’Artagnan had lost hope over ever walking again. 

All too soon, his reprieve was at an end. Aramis had stopped harping on d’Artagnan to finish his soup and bread, and Porthos’s recent belch signaled he’d had enough food. 

As they gathered up their dishes, Aramis said, “I get the feeling you need to go first, Athos. What happened after you left us?” 

Athos mentally cringed at Aramis’s phrasing regarding leaving them, still hating that he’d had to leave them, but he took a deep breath and slowly released it as he ordered his thoughts. 

Once he started speaking, it became easier to continue, and he could almost pretend he was reporting in to Tréville. The notion reminded him that he needed to get a missive sent forthwith to the Captain about the conclusion of their mission. As he spoke, he felt detached from what had happened, as though he’d heard or read about the events rather than having lived through them. Perhaps his heart being back with his friends in Saint Sulpice had left him incapable of forming any emotional attachment to those events surrounding his time away. 

He told them about Thierry and the militiaman’s identification of one of the bodies, and about the twin brothers named Jean-Luc and about Berville. However, he related nothing about his tumultuous thoughts regarding the return of his memories, about d’Artagnan’s injuries, or even of his trouble sleeping, instead sticking to the facts. 

Such as the fact that the crops of Berville had failed for the second year running, and the village leaders had been too proud to ask for any more help with getting by. Or, the fact that what the raiders had been doing was an open secret amongst the villagers. There was also the fact that, after the first death, many of the villagers had wanted the men to stop raiding and ask for help. Then, he told his friends about having to give mothers, wives, and sisters the news that their menfolk were never coming home again. 

Though everyone in Berville was complicit in one way or another, Athos had decided he would not condemn the whole village; they had already been punished more than enough with the loss of their sons, husbands, and brothers. They were suffering, and had made many bad choices and decisions instead of swallowing their pride and asking for assistance from the neighboring area. Now, because of the deaths in the other villages, Athos doubted Berville’s citizens would garner much sympathy or help. Only time would tell if the village would survive. 

At that point in his tale, he had already noticed d’Artagnan had been dozing on and off for some time, and was finding it difficult to remain awake. Athos thought about halting his account, but found himself needing to confess his latest error to the Gascon, even if d’Artagnan wasn’t quite listening to everything he was saying.  It felt as if he were being selfish, but hoped the younger man heard just enough to know the real reason he had been attacked and hurt again. 

He glanced at Aramis and tipped his head towards d’Artagnan, who currently had his eyes closed and was probably asleep. Aramis put a finger to his lips, to remind him to speak quietly, and gestured for him to continue. He hesitated for a moment, and then resumed his report. 

“One of the village’s elders admitted that his two sons, Jean and Luc, were the informants we had suspected to have existed. They took turns posing as peddlers and reported on the vulnerabilities of the surrounding towns, so the raiders knew, for the most part, exactly where to go and what to take. When one was a peddler, the other was a raider, and vice versa. 

“We searched the village and surrounding area, but the Jean-Luc who had played the peddler most recently was nowhere to be found. He had not been back or made contact with his parents in days. At the time, I thought the man had escaped and run away to avoid the hangman’s noose.” 

Athos closed his eyes briefly and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He then stood and made his way to the other end of the room, purposely putting distance between him and the others. 

“Evidently, I thought wrong. Jean-Luc must have learned of his brother’s death, and sought his revenge, having known where to find us due to his skills at information gathering. I apologize for my error in judgment and dereliction of duty. I did not anticipate—” 

“How could you have known?” 

The voice that interrupted him had been so unexpected that he actually thought the question had been asked by Aramis or Porthos. He glanced at the two older men and saw they were looking at d’Artagnan, who asked, “How could anyone have known?” 

He started to reply, but when d’Artagnan opened his eyes, the younger man overrode him once again. It was the most the Gascon had said to him in seemingly far too long. “Stop.” 

D’Artagnan nodded towards Porthos and Aramis in turn. “They told me they spoke to you about fault. Do I need to have Porthos reinforce that talk with a punch?” While Aramis grinned widely, and Porthos chuckled as he punched a fist into the palm of his other hand, the younger man continued to speak. “Jean-Luc had his chance to escape and perhaps start a new life. Instead, he made a choice. You are not God; you had no way of knowing that man would choose revenge.” 

The fact that d’Artagnan was speaking to him as he would have before his head injury warmed his heart, and rekindled hope within him that he might one day be forgiven. He could have easily argued the point, including the fact that he had been put in charge of the mission, and was therefore responsible for anything and everything that happened during it, but he chose to let it go. However, seen from another light, he was not at fault for many things that had happened. It would take time for him to reconcile these thoughts within his own heart and mind. 

Instead, he said, “I thought you were asleep.” 

D’Artagnan grimaced and looked away. “I-I’m sorry to overstep. I should not have interrupted you.” 

“No need to apologize,” he countered, which made the Gascon’s gaze snap back towards him, confusion and uncertainty fully displayed on his face. The look reminded him of when d’Artagnan had been awake during the extraction of the bullet in his friend’s back. They really needed to clear the air – and the sooner the better. “I am not responsible for the choices of others, only for my own.” 

His words seemed to surprise his friends, but before any of them could remark upon them, d’Artagnan’s face scrunched in pain. 

“Aramis,” the younger man said through clenched teeth. 

Aramis stood, worry flooding his face as he asked. “Is the pain back?”

Pain? Athos had no idea what pain they were talking about, but before he could ask, he thought he saw d’Artagnan’s left leg twitch. 

“Argh…G-God. Yes!” d’Artagnan said as his left leg twitched once again. A moment later the other leg joined in. 

Athos was stunned silent by what he had just witnessed. More thoughts than he could latch onto whirled around his mind as though it had been caught up in a tornado. He felt detached from what was going on around him as he struggled to comprehend what he had seen. 

Unable to move due to the whirlwind within him, he watched as Porthos grabbed d’Artagnan’s hand, encouraging the Gascon to squeeze if it would help with the pain. He watched as Aramis flitted about to put together some concoction or another and encourage d’Artagnan to drink it. And he watched as d’Artagnan writhed in pain until the concoction took hold and lulled the younger man into a proper sleep. 

Given the flurry of activity that had just occurred as a result, there was no way he could have imagined the fact that d’Artagnan’s legs had moved.  

Could he? 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Thirty-eight: Apologies 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for proofing Celticgal1041! Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	39. Chapter Thirty-eight: Apologies

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Thirty-eight: Apologies**

“—be alright,” Aramis said. 

“What?” Athos asked, knowing only that Aramis had spoken, but having heard none of the words. 

“D’Artagnan is going to be alright.” 

He nodded distractedly at the words, scarcely daring to believe them to be true. Yet, if his guilty mind had not deceived him… If he hadn’t imagined the movement, then perhaps… 

“His legs…” 

“What about them?” Porthos asked, sounding almost annoyed. 

“I saw them move.” 

“Did you?” Aramis countered, his expression giving nothing away. 

“He was in pain.” 

Aramis crossed his arms over his chest. “That happens when you are shot in the back.” 

“Damn it, Aramis!” Athos said, losing patience. He knew he deserved this attitude, but felt his friends were taking things a little too far. 

Porthos and Aramis shared a look; after a moment, Porthos shrugged and Aramis threw up his hands in frustration. Aramis gestured for them to move to the other side of the room, where the table was located, so they could let their friend sleep.   

“It happened sometime either during or just after the attack. We didn’t realize right away, and I don’t think he did either”—Aramis gestured towards d’Artagnan’s lower half—“but the feeling has returned to his legs. At times, it’s with a vengeance. As you just saw.” 

Multiple questions flooded his mind, but he could help the one that blurted out. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?” 

“Why the hell didn’t you tell d’Artagnan about your memories returning?” Porthos countered. “Instead, you left it to us. I’m still not certain he was completely convinced, though he said he believed us.” 

“I believe he does…now,” Aramis said, which caused Athos’s eyebrow to rise in inquiry. Stroking his beard, and with a thoughtful expression, the other man continued speaking. “Well… When you didn’t jump down his throat for speaking up… You saw his face, didn’t you? I think he believes us now, or is most of the way there, at any rate.” 

“I take it that conversation did not go well,” Athos said, certain his prediction had come true. 

Porthos snorted. “About what you’d expect. It was loads of fun for all three of us.” 

“I apologize, Gentlemen.”—He turned towards Porthos—“You were right, Porthos. I am a coward.” 

Athos saw Aramis’s eyes widen and head turn towards their large friend. “Porthos, that’s not fair.” 

“It is, my friend. I did not think so when I left, but I do now.” 

“I was angry, worried about you going alone; I shouldn’t have said that,” Porthos said. 

“No, you were right. I didn’t have to leave immediately. Twenty or thirty minutes would not have made a difference either way. I could’ve – _should have_ – told d’Artagnan myself. But, after what I’d so recently said to him—” 

“What did you say?” Porthos asked. “D’Artagnan wouldn’t tell us, and his mood seemed to take a major downturn while you were gone.” 

Athos’s old friend guilt nudged at him as he said, “Damn it! I don’t care what either of you say, that _was_ my fault.” 

“Athos—” 

“No, Aramis, you were not there. I realize now that my words came from a place of fear, and not just fear for d’Artagnan’s chances of recovery. I voiced things…”—He sighed and rubbed his eyes, letting his hand continue down to scratch at his beard—“What I said…” 

“What you said does not matter any longer,” Aramis declared. 

“I ain’t so sure of that, Aramis,” Porthos said, fists clenched in barely-restrained anger. “You saw how d’Artagnan was after Athos left.” 

“True, but it does us no good to keep rehashing these things. What went on then is between d’Artagnan and Athos, and _they_ are the ones who—” 

“But _we_ were the ones who had to deal with the aftermath – _not_ him,” Porthos said, pointing a finger at him, and basically adding yet another failure onto the long list of failures he’d accumulated more recently. 

“Porthos!” 

“No Aramis, Porthos is right. I left you two with another of my messes to clean up. I owe you both more than I can ever repay, and yet I continue to add to my debt again and again.” 

Aramis leaned forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “There is no debt amongst family”—a wide grin broke out on his friend’s face—“Though it does come in handy when we run out of wine.” 

Athos couldn’t help the slight grin that had erupted on his face, while Porthos outright laughed out loud, causing Aramis to shush him. Anxiously, they turned towards where d’Artagnan was sleeping to make sure they hadn’t disturbed him. Fortunately, their young friend was still deep under the influence of the medicinal draughts he had been given by Aramis. 

ooooooo 

The next morning, when he awoke, Athos realized he was alone in bed. The three of them had talked for a while longer, but eventually the frequency of his yawns prompted Aramis to suggest he get some sleep. To which Porthos had helpfully added that he “looked like crap.” 

Given the insomnia he’d dealt with while out on the road, Athos wasn’t convinced he’d be able to sleep, but managed to drop off the moment his head hit the pillow. Or, at least that’s what he’d assumed, because he didn’t remember the pillow part. 

He had awakened once – sort of – when his sleeping companion had changed at some point during the night. Honestly, Athos had no recollection of which of his friends had been with him last – or first, for that matter. He was simply grateful for the sleep which he had obviously needed, and attributed the sudden ability to do so to being back with his friends once more. 

Before the pull of sleep had become too much for him, he had asked some questions about d’Artagnan’s condition, trying to get a better understanding of the fit of pain he had witnessed the younger man suffering. Aramis deferred answering any of those questions, saying it would likely be best to wait until after they had heard d’Artagnan’s report about what had happened when he was attacked. Seemingly without realizing he could be heard, Aramis then mumbled something cryptic, and worrying, about being thankful they had caught this bout early enough, almost shuddering in remembrance of what Athos believed was that last time. 

Athos had wanted to ask about the chances of d’Artagnan walking again now that at least some movement had been restored, but he couldn’t get the words out for fear of hearing bad news. Surprisingly, Aramis had divulged the information without being asked. 

“It’s difficult to say, but I think d’Artagnan’s stubbornness won’t allow for anything but a full recovery.” 

ooooooo 

It was almost late morning before d’Artagnan awoke from his drug-induced sleep. 

The Gascon was groggy, but obviously feeling better, which had lifted Athos’s spirits somewhat. 

His curiosity over what had happened while he’d been away had only grown in the hours that had passed. Athos wanted to jump right in and ask questions, but held his tongue while Aramis examined the younger man. 

He thought about leaving the room during the exam, but he was curious about d’Artagnan’s current condition. Unable to clearly hear what was being said, Athos contented himself with watching even as he pretended to clean his weapons. When, out of the corner of his eye, he saw d’Artagnan’s legs move slightly though purposefully, he’d nearly dropped the pistol he had been cleaning at the time. 

Happy for his friend, it had been difficult to concentrate on his weapons after seeing that wonderful, miraculous sight. Luckily, Porthos had taken pity on him and helped him finish cleaning them. 

ooooooo 

After partaking in a meal, there were no more obstacles to d’Artagnan finally divulging what had happened. 

As they gathered their used dishes, d’Artagnan had said, “I suppose it’s my turn to report.” 

“We’ve had Athos’s account of his adventures,” Aramis said as they moved their chairs into a loose semi-circle around d’Artagnan’s bed. “All that’s left is what happened after Porthos and I went downstairs,” Aramis said. 

“Right,” d’Artagnan said. “I was in bed and—” 

“Hold it,” Porthos said before gesturing towards Athos. “Go back a bit and tell him about what you threatened to do if Aramis and me didn’t give you some time alone.” 

D’Artagnan grinned, a sight that Athos had been greatly missing, though he had not known it until that moment. 

“Threaten? I didn’t threaten either of you,” the younger man said, looking not-quite entirely innocent. “I just got bored, and decided to reminisce about my days on the farm tending to the horses and other livestock. _You’re_ the ones who left when I started talking about the time a doe goat had to breech deliver—” 

“Gah! Enough!” Porthos said, lifting his hands in surrender. “Now you’re just doing that on purpose.” 

Aramis groaned melodramatically as he gestured towards d’Artagnan. “You see what we had to endure! Animal husbandry… You would’ve made a hasty retreat too, had you been here.” 

One of Athos’s eyebrows rose of its own accord as he thought back to the times when d’Artagnan had brought up his former life in Lupiac. The Gascon rarely ever spoke of his family, but was more than willing to speak about what his life had been like helping to run his father’s farm; a farm that one day might have been d’Artagnan’s had a new path in life not opened up to the young man. Truthfully, Athos had never really minded the stories, gleaning from them various insights into his new acquaintance, and later friend, including unintentionally shared snippets about family and friends. 

However, he had been witness to more than one of the semi-rare incidences when d’Artagnan had chosen to tell a farm-related story, which seemed designed solely to bore listeners to tears, induce them to leave, or both. Athos had figured out a while ago that it was purposely done, and done with a great deal of skill. It was not often that the younger man would turn the talent on the three of them, but when it was, the stories usually accomplished the goal of minor revenge for a slight, or to get well-intentioned friends off of his back for a time. 

Athos dipped his head towards Porthos and Aramis in acknowledgement and said, “Gentlemen, my apologies.” He focused on d’Artagnan, whose expression seemed torn between amusement and smugness, and gestured the younger man to recommence his story. 

“Once Aramis and Porthos left to go downstairs, I was…” 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Thirty-nine: D’Artagnan’s Tale 

**ooooooo**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for the abrupt end to the chapter, but it serves a purpose, so I’m not sorry at all. :o)
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	40. Chapter Thirty-nine: D'Artagnan's Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who hated the fact that I ended the previous chapter on a cliffhanger, I wanted to let you know that it couldn’t be helped. Back when I wrote the draft of this week’s chapter, I didn’t realize that I’d written it in d’Artagnan’s POV, until much later when I typed it up. I tried to shift it over to Athos’s, but it didn’t work on several levels. So, below is basically a flashback of the attack from d’Artagnan’s POV.

**Chapter Thirty-nine: D’Artagnan’s Tale**

D’Artagnan was lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Porthos and Aramis were downstairs somewhere supposedly taking some time for themselves and likely getting something to drink. 

Though he was over his fever and on the road to recovery, his legs were still useless. His friends had been reluctant to leave him alone to fend for himself in his condition, but when he had started going into excruciating detail about animal husbandry, the two older men had finally been “convinced” to retreat from the room. He had assured them he was only going to sleep, even blowing out the candle beside the bed to add weight to his words.  

In reality, however, sleep was as far from his mind as the east was from the west. As he lay in the dark, he could almost pretend that he was still able to walk. Or, when that failed, he would try to believe what Aramis had been saying about how his condition was not permanent, and that he would fully recover the use of his legs. Then his thoughts had centered on what would happen to him when they returned to Paris and he was still unable to move without help. Despite assurances to the contrary, he was resigned to the fact that he would no longer be a Musketeer. 

He would soon be losing his livelihood and his home. If he was fortunate, there would be a small pension, but he doubted it would cover his living expenses because he would need to hire someone to help him with the most basic activities. There wasn’t much an ex-farmer and -soldier could do without the use of his legs. 

In his mind’s eye, he could envision himself dressed in the ragged remains of his uniform and begging for scraps of food, or a coin or two, while finding shelter in the Court of Miracles. He could see himself eking out a life that was barely worth living. Unable to stand and fight, he would be vulnerable to attack from all quarters.  He would be alone in the world because he had no close blood family, and the men who would soon be his ex-brothers-in-arms would have their own lives to live. It would be no time at all before he was forgotten…again. 

This train of thought led him to thinking about how Athos had forgotten him. It made him want to— 

From outside of the room, d’Artagnan heard the scuff of a boot against the wood planking of the inn’s hallway floor. Figuring it was his friends returning, and not wanting to have to deal with anymore of their sympathy or pity, d’Artagnan closed his eyes and let his head drift towards his right shoulder to feign a more natural slumbering position. With practiced ease, he slowed his breathing to emulate someone asleep, and listened as the door’s latch unhitched, creaking slightly on its hinges as it opened. 

Immediately, he felt the wrongness of the presence at the entryway, and knew whoever was standing there was _not_ a friend. He was also certain that it was not the innkeeper, having met the kind man several times before. He maintained the façade of one asleep as the presence remained unmoving, listening to the stranger’s loud breathing. At best, whoever it was would realize their mistake and would soon go quietly on their way. At worst, the stranger was a robber who was trying to decide if he could do the job without waking him. 

D’Artagnan knew there was little he could do given the current state of his health. He was almost completely at the mercy of anyone who wanted to do him harm. 

Continuing to lie as if asleep, he had to resist the temptation to open his eyes or to shift what parts of his body he could still move.  Of course, the part of him that enjoyed gallows humor had to point out that at least he doesn’t have to worry about his legs moving and giving him away. 

Recently, he’d had a lot of practice faking sleep, but as the seconds passed, he had begun to feel as if his life depended on this ability. 

Then, he heard it. 

He had been so wrapped up in faking sleep that he had not heard the presence moving closer to his bedside. Yet the sound he’d heard, almost next to his ears, was the unmistakable sound of a dagger clearing its sheath. 

Without thinking, he reacted. 

And it saved his life. 

For the moment. 

Before his eyes were fully open, and before he’d even realized he was moving, d’Artagnan had moved his arms to stop the blade from descending towards his heart. He had grabbed the intruder’s wrists, barely preventing himself from being cut open. 

Given that he was still recovering from being shot, and the subsequent fever, he was fully aware he would not be able to hold out for long against someone who was healthy and determined to see him dead. He cursed his crippled legs, knowing he could’ve better defended himself, or perhaps already defeated whoever was attacking him, if they were still working. 

His eyes had quickly adjusted to the low light coming into the room from the hallway, allowing him to see the intruder’s face. Given his expression, the man seemed certain victory was at hand. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but privately agree with him. 

“It’s only a matter of time Musketeer,” the stranger said, looking crazed yet satisfied for what he was about to do. “You killed _my_ brother. I wonder how your friends downstairs are going to feel when they see _their_ brother is dead”—the man laughed—“and right under their noses!” 

A dark thought flashed through his head that his friends wouldn’t care, that he would better off if he were to die. Yet, when his arms were pushed back towards his chest, to the point where the blade was hovering barely a finger’s-width above it, d’Artagnan couldn’t go through with it. 

He couldn’t abide leaving Porthos and Aramis with that kind of guilt. He couldn’t leave them with the life-long burden on their shoulders that they shouldn’t have left him alone. 

So he kept fighting, not wasting any of his remaining strength on talking, and despite the feeling his arms were rapidly weakening. He kept fighting despite knowing he only had moments left to live if he did not try something – anything. 

D’Artagnan took a chance, and let go of one of the intruder’s arms. Then he threw a low punch in a move that would have made Porthos proud. His attacker let out a yell and doubled over, but as the man stepped back, two things happened: the knife dragged along d’Artagnan’s torso, cutting him, and the intruder made a grab for his shirt, dragging him half off of his bed. With his legs out of commission, d’Artagnan knew he was worse off than before, and let himself fall the rest of the way out of bed and onto the floor, knocking the man off balance even more. 

Taking what little advantage he had, he elbowed the man in the side of the knee, which made his attacker stumble into the wall. D’Artagnan then shifted his weight onto one elbow and made a grab for the nearest leg, pulling with all of his remaining strength. 

Somehow, it worked. 

The intruder had been off balance just enough to fall in a heap on the floor, dropping his dagger in such a way that it slid across the floor and out of the man’s immediate reach. D’Artagnan, knowing his advantage would last only seconds, started to drag his body towards the dagger, trying to get it before the stranger could reach it. 

In mere moments, multiple things happened at nearly the same time, though d’Artagnan would only ever be able to guess at anything beyond what he could personally remember doing. 

D’Artagnan dragged his body within reach of the dagger. 

_The intruder clumsily got to his feet and started towards his prey._

The injured Musketeer wrapped his hand around the hilt. 

_His opponent lunged towards him, intending to wrest the blade out of his hands and kill him_. 

D’Artagnan shifted his body around and thrust his arm out by instinct, burying the blade of the dagger into the intruder’s gut at a steep angle he was certain would push the tip of the blade into the man’s heart.  

The stranger’s face registered shock as he looked down at the blade sticking out of his chest before he fell to his knees. Then, the man’s eyes went blank and the face slackened, before his attacker fell over onto his side and partly onto d’Artagnan’s legs. D’Artagnan’s hold on the blade was such that, as the man had fallen, it had been dislodged from his gut and remained tightly gripped in the Gascon’s hand. 

Breathing heavily, d’Artagnan kept the knife ready in case the intruder was only playing possum. However, exhaustion quickly caught up to him as his breathing slowed, and he was barely able to hold himself up by his now-shaking arms. 

So intent and focused on the body was he that, when he heard a sound and turned towards it, blade in hand, he nearly stabbed Porthos, who managed to capture his wrist before he could do any harm. 

Despite the familiar faces and voices, it still took both Aramis and Porthos some time to make him realize he was safe and the man who had tried to kill him was truly dead. Only then could he make himself let go of the knife he had been holding and relinquish it to Porthos. It was not long after that he closed his eyes and dropped his head onto the arm that had been holding him up. He fleetingly imagined he was like a flower that had wilted in severe heat. 

A moment later, Porthos yelled for Aramis, startling him. He opened his eyes to see his two friends had switched places. 

Aramis gently began to maneuver him so that he was partially lying on his back. The older man then moved to adjust him farther onto his back, when a sharp pain ripped through it. He could not help but cry out slightly at the sensation. 

“My apologies,” Aramis said as the man’s hands stilled. “What hurts?” 

Another ripple of pain shot through him as he answered, “Ev-ev-everything,” 

“Everything?” 

“Ye-yes,” he replied, and felt his body being jerked around a bit. 

Another sensation of being jostled, and Porthos was suddenly calling for Aramis’s attention. 

D’Artagnan’s mind lost focus on what was going on around him after that. The pain, the strange jostling, and a buzzing in his ears became his whole world for God only knew how long.  

At one point, when a change in elevation had caused a bit of vertigo, his brain eventually supplied the idea he had been lifted up off the floor. 

The next thing he was aware of was that he was lying in bed in a room that seemed different somehow, but he couldn’t seem to care about that beyond the fact that Porthos and Aramis were there with him. 

Then he’d noticed Porthos’s hand was bloody. He could tell they were talking about him, but the pain made it difficult to understand what they were saying. Aramis nodded before pointing towards the door.  

Aramis lifted his shirt and then he’d felt pressure on his chest. The additional pain made the world go white for a while. 

When he was next aware, his shirt was gone, Aramis’s hand was gesturing oddly towards his chest, and there was a stranger in the room. No, not a stranger. It was the physician Aramis said had kept them supplied while he was recovering. 

Something tugged at his skin, and d’Artagnan finally recognized the odd gesturing for what it was – stitches. Had he been wounded? He thought he heard something about his back and the possibility of more stitches. 

The physician – his mind was blank as to the man’s name – was touching his legs. He closed his eyes as pain not from his chest crashed through him, and there was that strange sensation of being jostled once again. He wished the physician would stop manhandling him, but it was not meant to be. 

Hands were all over him as they had turned him on his side. Someone touched the wound on his back, and he had almost jumped out of his skin with the sudden flare of pain radiating up and down his body. 

Sensation was overwhelming him. He wanted to black out, but the shards of pain stabbing him from head to toe would not let him. 

Porthos was suddenly in his line of sight. 

“Ple-ease,” he said. 

His hand was squeezed. “Soon, d’Artagnan. Soon. I promise.” 

Porthos’s fingers touched his face, and as they were pulled away, he saw they were damp.  Was he crying? 

“First, you need to tell me how many hands you can feel on your legs. How many hands?” He shook his head no at Porthos’s ludicrous notion that he should be able to feel his legs. “Yes, yes. You can do it.”—His chin was grabbed and he was forced to look into Porthos’s face—“How many hands, d’Artagnan? Concentrate for moment. How many—?” 

He concentrated, ignoring all other sensations, including the pain coursing through him. 

“Two,” he said, in voice just above a whisper. 

Porthos looked up at someone behind him, and grinned. “Where? Can you tell me where you feel the two hands?” 

D’Artagnan felt as though he was jostled for a moment and he lost track of where the hands had been only a moment ago. He looked into Porthos’s eyes once more, and concentrated as best he could around the continued pain. 

“Knee,” he said, “Right, I think.” 

“Good,” he heard at the same time from two different directions. 

“Where else?” Aramis asked from somewhere he could not see. 

“Le-left f-foot,” he replied just as another spike of pain consumed him. 

A cup was lifted up to his mouth, and he was encouraged to drink. He attempted to get away from the bitter taste, but Aramis’s voice promised relief if he would just keep drinking. 

So he did, because he could no longer take the hell he was currently going through. 

It wasn’t long before the pain dulled, and his world became soft around the edges. 

Grey edged into his vision, followed by blackness. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Forty: More Than Anything 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the guest POV; back to Athos’s in the next one. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Also, my thanks to Tidia for being a second pair of eyes on the action scene. Any mistakes are a part of life and/or the result of a tired brain.


	41. Chapter Forty: More Than Anything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Athos’s POV with this chapter.

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Forty: More Than Anything**

“…I guess whatever Aramis gave me put me under, because I don’t remember anything much after that bitter taste,” d’Artagnan concluded. 

At some point during d’Artagnan’s recounting of events, Athos had moved to stand by the room’s only window. He’d had to fight the urge to pace the room like a caged lion, and he’d had to literally bite his tongue more than once to keep from interrupting d’Artagnan’s report. 

When he had abruptly stood, almost knocking over the chair he had been sitting on, the younger man had stuttered to a halt in his description of events, looking at him with a confused yet apprehensive expression on his face. Athos had turned away and stalked over to the window without saying a word. An awkward silence continued for another half a minute before Porthos prompted d’Artagnan to continue. 

When the Gascon had continued after a long pause, d’Artagnan’s first few words were hesitant, almost mumbled, but it hadn’t taken long for his voice to once more gain confidence. 

Another awkward silence filled the room when at last the tale had been told. His mind was in chaos, and his thoughts were unable to coalesce into speech. One thought had managed to penetrate the turmoil within: he had almost lost d’Artagnan – _again_ – without having cleared the air between them. 

Whatever else was or wasn’t his fault, the fact that he hadn’t made more of a concerted effort at reconciliation _was_ solely his fault. Granted, circumstances had not always been on his side, nor had his emotions been under his usual tight control, but he could have and should have done more to repair the damage his amnesiac self had caused. 

Why was he always hurting the people he cared about? 

“Athos?” 

The voice brought him back to the present. He turned his head towards Aramis, and realized all three men had expectant looks on their faces. They were waiting for his reaction to d’Artagnan’s recounting of events. 

Athos turned back towards the window, inhaling deeply and slowly exhaling before facing his friends once more. Again, a myriad of questions came to his mind, but he forced himself to concentrate on what he deemed most important, attempting to keep himself from saying something else he would regret. 

Just as he was about to speak, he noticed d’Artagnan’s expression had morphed from expectation to one of apprehension. He wondered if the younger man was expecting a negative reaction along the lines of a reprimand from him. If that was the case, then d’Artagnan was going to be greatly surprised. 

“How are your legs now? What did the physician say?” 

D’Artagnan was not the only one who had been taken by surprise with his questions. 

It took a moment before the surprise waned enough for the younger man to answer. “I-I’m not sure… I can feel them again, which is…”—d’Artagnan looked thoughtful and then shook his head—“I don’t have the words… But you’ve witnessed the downside. Sometimes pain comes from nowhere and I can’t quite control my legs. The physician…” 

When d’Artagnan trailed off again, Aramis took over. “The physician was…conservative in his prognosis. He was amazed yet pleased in the change of condition. However, he wasn’t certain—” 

“I still might not walk again,” d’Artagnan said, bluntly cutting to the chase, before adding in a subdued tone of voice, “Or be a Musketeer.” 

“You will. I am certain of it,” he said, once again surprising the other men in the room. He was not known for being an optimistic person, but he believed that if anyone was stubborn enough to fully come back from this injury, it would be d’Artagnan. 

Both Aramis and Porthos spoke up with similar words of belief in a complete restoration of his ability to walk. 

He could see from the expression on the Gascon’s face that the younger man thought they were all paying him lip service, that d’Artagnan didn’t believe them. Athos was certain part of that was his fault.  How much of d’Artagnan’s confidence had he destroyed due to his dreadful behavior while an amnesiac? 

More importantly, how much of d’Artagnan’s confidence could be restored if he were to conquer this obstacle? 

“Aramis, what do you think? What can we do to help d’Artagnan walk again?” 

When he’d finished asking his questions, he noted the younger man’s expression, which was one of incredulity, and knew it was the complete turnaround from his recent attitude that d’Artagnan was having trouble accepting. They really needed to talk. 

Running a hand over his beard, Aramis said, “I think—” 

“Are you just going to keep pretending that you haven’t been treating me like I was merely horse dung you’d scrape off the bottom of your boot?” 

“That was not my—” 

D’Artagnan indicated their two friends. “You know, while you were gone, they told me you had regained your memories. I didn’t really believe them… No offense, my friends, but—” 

Both Porthos and Aramis spoke up at the same time. 

“Offense taken, mate.” 

“Quite offended.” 

Athos glared at the two, who looked contrite for interrupting the standoff between him and d’Artagnan. 

“You should have been the one to tell me,” d’Artagnan said. 

Athos could not deny the statement. “I should have, and I apologize for not doing so.” 

“What about an apol—” 

“Now is not the time for that conversation, gentlemen,” Aramis said. “That’s between the two of you. Right now what’s most important, d’Artagnan, is how to get you back on your feet – literally.” 

Porthos shoved Aramis’s shoulder. “Really?” 

“Sorry,” Aramis said, though by his grin, anyone could see he not one bit sorry for what he’d said. 

Athos could see that d’Artagnan badly wanted to continue the conversation, as did he, but the younger man had held his tongue. Apparently, the younger man had seen the wisdom of not putting their two friends in the middle of their problems any more than they had already. It was a sentiment he could wholeheartedly agree with. 

“Ow,” Aramis said, rubbing his shoulder, and prying Athos’s attention away from their young friend. “Did you really have to hit me again?” 

“I barely touched you,” Porthos said. 

“You and I have vastly different definitions—” 

“Gentlemen,” Athos said, feeling his eyebrow rise of its own accord. 

Aramis cleared his throat. “Right, uh… I want to give the stitches on d’Artagnan’s torso the rest of today to continue healing, and then tomorrow I was thinking we could start getting things going again.” 

“How?” d’Artagnan asked. 

“First of all, I thought we could try relaxing your muscles with a hot bath, if possible.” 

“His muscles aren’t the only reasons he needs a hot bath,” Porthos said. 

Athos had to hide his smirk, but privately agreed a bath was necessary, and then concluded he likely needed one as well. 

“Thanks ever so much, Porthos.” 

Porthos laughed. “You’re welcome.” 

This time it was Aramis’s turn to slap Porthos’s shoulder. Porthos’s resulting expression promised retribution of some sort in the future. 

Aramis’s expression turned anxious for a brief moment before he grinned, which was twinned on Porthos’s face. “As I was saying… We’ll start with a hot bath, and then go from there. I’ve several ideas in mind.” 

“Aramis…do you think I’ll be able to walk again?” 

“My dear friend, I think you can do anything you set your mind to. Do you want to walk again?” 

“I want that more than anything,” d’Artagnan said, determination shining in his eyes. “Well, almost anything.” 

While Aramis listed some more of his ideas, Athos was left wondering what d’Artagnan could want more than the ability to walk again. What could be more important than that? 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Forty-one: Inauspicious Start 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	42. Chapter Forty-one: Inauspicious Start

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Forty-one: Inauspicious Start**

The next morning, Athos had gone downstairs to inquire about getting a bath set up for d’Artagnan. Knowing the younger man was still wary around him, he’d chosen to absent himself while Aramis examined d’Artagnan’s wounds.  

When he’d opened the door, Aramis was saying, “Maybe you should wait another day.” 

“Aramis, no,” d’Artagnan said. “I’m afraid the longer I wait, the less likely I’ll walk away from this place. I want, no _need_ , to do this.” 

The determined tone of voice was unmistakable, having heard it more than once, and Athos knew Aramis would be helpless to defend against it. With seemingly all the pillows in the room stuffed behind his back, the younger man was almost fully sitting up in bed for the first time since they had arrived back in Saint Sulpice. His friend was a bit pale, and seemed to be uncomfortable, so Athos could understand Aramis’s reservations regarding d’Artagnan getting out of bed. 

“D’Artagnan, I—” Aramis began, but stopped speaking when the younger man’s attention had shifted towards Athos. With a look that promised his and d’Artagnan’s conversation was not yet finished, or would be forgotten, Aramis asked, “What did they say?” 

“Where’s Porthos?” Athos asked, trying to delay relating the bad news. 

It was quite obvious both men knew he was stalling. D’Artagnan had looked like he was about to answer his question, but abruptly stopped before uttering a sound. Athos tried not to be hurt by the notion that the young man would only talk to him if it was necessary or if he was angry. 

Aramis shrugged and said, “No idea. You didn’t see him?” 

Athos shook his head. “No.” He sighed and moved towards one of the chairs at the table.  “And bad news, I’m afraid. No tub for bathing. They can bring up buckets of hot water, if we want, but no tub.” 

He saw d’Artagnan’s face fall, and hated constantly being the one to bear bad tidings to the Gascon. 

“They do, however, have a small, private lavoir*. The washing basins are not big enough for a person, but—” 

“But,” Aramis interrupted, suddenly sounding excited, “we can easily make up some warm compresses, soak his lower legs in buckets of warm water, and most importantly, get out of this room for a while.” 

“Just so,” Athos said, noting that d’Artagnan seemed very interested in the prospect of leaving their room. He couldn’t blame the Gascon; one of the most difficult aspects of recovering from a serious injury was being confined indoors. 

Before he could inquire about the logistics of getting d’Artagnan to the lavoir, Porthos walked into the room. He had one hand behind his back and a big grin on his face. 

“Present for ya,” Porthos said as he tossed something off-white towards d’Artagnan. 

A muttered curse was heard when a ball of fabric lightly hit d’Artagnan in the face, which had put a smile on all their faces. When the younger man picked up the shirt, it had immediately become obvious that Porthos had seen to getting it cleaned and repaired. 

“Thank you, Porthos,” d’Artagnan said. “I was beginning to think I would have to go around naked.” 

“Thank Madame Gérard,” Porthos said. “She is the one who did the work; I just asked for her help.” 

Aramis had taken the shirt from d’Artagnan and was inspecting the stitches. “You know I could’ve have saved Madame Gérard some work. My stitching is—” 

“Fine enough for the Queen’s chemise*,” Porthos and d’Artagnan said in concert with each other, interrupting Aramis. Immediately, Porthos added, “We know.” 

Aramis huffed in annoyance and sent a rude gesture Porthos’s way, which caused the other man to laugh. Athos couldn’t help the small grin as he shook his head at the antics of his friends, and had noticed a similar reaction from d’Artagnan. 

“I know you told me that there was no hope for my other shirt, but what about my doublet?” 

“Working on that,” Porthos said. “We’ll figure something out.” 

Athos had caught the slight shift of Porthos’s eyes towards his direction, and he tipped his chin downward the barest amount in response. They would find a temporary solution for the return to Paris, but he was determined to be the one to replace the younger man’s doublet in gratitude for saving his life. 

ooooooo 

When Athos had shut the door, he turned towards his friends and said, “That was Madame Gérard. She said the lavoir is ready for us.” 

“Excellent,” Aramis said as he prevented d’Artagnan’s hand from flinging the bed clothes off. 

“Aramis, wha—?” 

“I know you are more than ready to get back on your feet, but this is going to be a process. The bullet wound in your back is still relatively fresh; the one on your torso even more so.” 

“I know that, why…?” 

Athos had wanted to step in at that moment to remind the younger man how his emotions could run away with him, that his tendency to rush into things would only lead to disappointment in this case, but he’d held himself back. 

Porthos stepped in to answer the half-asked question. “Because we know you, d’Artagnan. Just a few seconds ago, you were probably thinking you could make it downstairs on your own, without any help. Am I right?” 

D’Artagnan’s expression had immediately turned stony, and he refused to meet anyone’s eyes. 

Again Athos had struggled to not intervene, because he knew his opinions would not have been welcomed by the younger man. 

“You must let us help you,” Aramis said, laying a hand on the Gascon’s forearm. “We’re not trying to hold you back, but we don’t want you to get hurt either. Understand?” 

D’Artagnan nodded. “I just…want…” 

“We know,” Aramis said. “And you will, but it will take time. So, for now, you need to let us help you. Alright?” 

Athos had seen the mass of conflicting emotions that had flickered across the younger man’s face before the eyes closed. He knew it would be a struggle for the Gascon to stifle his innate independence and stubborn pride regardless of the outcome of this conversation.  

A moment or two later, d’Artagnan had nodded his agreement as he opened his eyes, “Alright.”  

A quick glance at his two other friends had revealed a mix of relief and skepticism on their faces at the response. Despite the acquiescence, they all knew it would not be easy to get d’Artagnan through his recovery. Like their friend on the bed, they would all have to take it one day at a time. 

Aramis patted d’Artagnan’s forearm and smiled as he stood. “Good.” The marksman gestured for Porthos to approach. “D’Artagnan, Porthos and I are going to help you downstairs and over to the lavoir. Athos will make sure the way is clear. Questions?” 

“What about pants and boots?” 

“Afraid of letting people see those knobby knees and gangly legs of yours?” Porthos asked before chuckling. 

“Very funny,” d’Artagnan said, looking like he had wanted to either stick his tongue out at Porthos or punch him in the shoulder. Coloring slightly, he’d continued, “What about Madame  Gérard and the other guests? It’s not proper to—” 

Before Aramis and Porthos were able to start in on d’Artagnan once more, Athos had finally decided to intervene. 

“Currently, we are the only guests of this establishment, and Madame Gérard promised to stay out of sight and out of the lavoir while we are using it.”—His glare towards his trouble-making friends stopped them from making any comments—“You have nothing to worry about on that score.” 

D’Artagnan nodded his acceptance. 

“One more thing,” Aramis said, getting d’Artagnan’s attention, “and you’re not going to like it.” 

With suspicion coloring his voice, d’Artagnan asked, “What?” 

“You’ve been abed for more than a week now. Remember how you just agreed to letting us help you?” At d’Artagnan’s acknowledgement, Aramis continued. “Good. Because Porthos and I are going to have to carry you down to the lavoir.” 

“But—” 

“No buts, my friend. Even with our help, there are the stairs inside, and an uneven ground to contend with outside. I don’t want to risk you falling and ripping stitches out.” 

“Can’t I at least try to stand on my own two feet – just for a bit?” d’Artagnan said in a pleading tone. 

Athos was hoping Aramis would give in to their younger friend’s request. He had a strong suspicion d’Artagnan would have difficulties remaining standing for very long, or would try and take a step, but it was obvious that it was something the Gascon badly needed to drive home the fact that the help was necessary in the first place. 

Aramis took a long moment to consider, and he’d noticed when the other man’s gaze shifted between him and Porthos. He’d done his best to convey his support of d’Artagnan’s request. 

“Alright,” Aramis said, “but just for a minute. I don’t want to overtax your legs so soon.” 

D’Artagnan smiled briefly and nodded his acceptance of the compromise, removing the bedcovers off of his legs. 

Athos had a hard time restraining himself as Aramis helped d’Artagnan move his legs over the side of the bed and sit at its edge. Somehow, seeing the younger man’s legs move a bit in a purposeful way had made having to stand back and watch a little bit easier. 

Aramis moved to sit on d’Artagnan’s right while Porthos did the same on the left. Then, after a quick count of three, they carefully stood up. 

D’Artagnan paled slightly, bowing his head and closing his eyes as he swayed enough that their two friends had to readjust their holds on the Gascon. 

“Are you alright?” Aramis said, trying to get a look at d’Artagnan’s downturned face. “Maybe we should sit ba—” 

“No!” d’Artagnan said, lifting his head. “I just was a bit dizzy for a moment; I’m good.” 

Just as Aramis was about to say something more, Porthos said, “We’ve talked before about your definition of ‘good’. 

D’Artagnan chuckled. “So we have, and yet you keep trying to convince me my definition is wrong.” 

“Most of the time it is.” 

“So you say.” 

“You should listen to your elders.” 

“I do.” 

“When it suits ya.” 

“Exactly,” the Gascon said, his voice sounding a bit strained. 

Athos was enjoying the back and forth between Porthos and d’Artagnan, but both he – and Aramis – could see that the younger man’s legs were already weakening. 

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis said, “we should go.” 

The Gascon sighed heavily and resignedly. “I know.” 

“Ready, Porthos?” 

“Ready.” 

“Athos, the door, if you please.” 

When he’d opened the door, he’d turned back to see that d’Artagnan was being lowered slowly back down to the bed. Prompting d’Artagnan to drape his arms over their shoulders, Porthos and Aramis then moved to grasp each other’s wrists underneath the younger man’s legs. Aramis and Porthos did another three-count and lifted, essentially creating a seat with their arms. 

Athos had begun to lead the way towards the stairs after an awkward first few steps. Though d’Artagnan had lost weight recently, it was obviously still no easy task to carry someone of the younger man’s build. 

The stairs were a special kind of hell, and the two men had almost dropped their young friend until they had turned so that Porthos could take on the added weight the downslope caused on the one side. Athos had been just a couple of steps farther down, waiting to see if he would be needed when he’d noticed the Gascon’s countenance.  

Though d’Artagnan was attempting to maintain an impassive expression, the man’s eyes had told an entirely different story. Athos was able to see how hard d’Artagnan was working to not feel embarrassed or ashamed at having to be carried around like a young child, but it was a lost cause. And he’d noticed the others were also aware of d’Artagnan’s struggle. 

By the time they had reached the back door of the inn, which led to the lavoir, d’Artagnan’s impassive expression had transformed, and it was obvious to all that he was completely disheartened. 

It was not an auspicious start to the young man’s road to recovery, but he was resolved that there would be nothing less than a full one – and not just d’Artagnan’s legs, but also heart, mind and soul. **  
**

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Forty-two:  Duty Calls 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**_“small, private lavoir”_ :** A lavoir is a public place set aside for the washing of clothes. They are usually open-air, though often roofed, and placed by the river or a fountain with running water.  Communal washing places were common in Europe until industrial washing was introduced, but they can still be found in some parts of the world. I’m going with the idea that an inn would have its own lavoir. 

**_“Fine enough for the Queen’s chemise”_ :** Quoted from episode 1.03, “Commodities”, written by Susie Conklin. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are wondering, the Talk is coming. I hope you’ll be patient just a bit longer. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	43. Chapter Forty-two: Duty Calls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I ran out of buffer chapters a few weeks ago. Real life is pretty busy right now, and I’m barely managing to stay one chapter ahead at this point. I’ll try to keep posting one chapter a week, but they will likely be shorter in length.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Forty-two: Duty Calls**

When they had returned to their room at the end of the third day of working to get d’Artagnan back on his feet again, Monsieur Gérard delivered a missive from Captain Tréville that had arrived earlier in the day. 

The past few days had been rough on all of them, but more so on d’Artagnan. Their first visit to the lavoir had done some good in Aramis’s opinion, despite the fact that d’Artagnan had suffered some aftereffects from having to move around so much after days in bed. The younger man’s lower back and torso around the wounds had ached, and unfortunately, there had also been some pain in his legs, which had several times moved involuntarily. From the previous bout he had observed, Athos could see it was nowhere near as painful as last time, something for which he was thankful. 

D’Artagnan’s easy compliance with Aramis’s request to take something for the pain and to aid sleep was disturbing to him, but part of him had thought it prudent for being ready for the next day’s venture to the lavoir. He hoped his young friend had believed the same, but the larger part of him was fairly certain d’Artagnan had just wanted an escape from the physical and emotional challenges he had gone through that day. 

Each successive visit to the lavoir showed some degree of improvement. 

They started each day, with both Aramis and Porthos supporting d’Artagnan as he stood in place for several minutes; it was intended to help him regain more and more strength and balance in his legs. Afterwards, the two would carry the younger man downstairs with Athos acting as a buffer between them and the outside world. 

After the first day, Aramis had begun massaging the muscles of d’Artagnan’s back and legs. Earlier, both Aramis and Porthos had teamed up to get the legs moving even with the younger man’s limited ability to help. D’Artagnan had remained disheartened to some degree with each session in the lavoir, but after some time in their room, he was able to mostly bounce back emotionally. The Gascon’s innate stubbornness was able to shine through despite the emotional setbacks of each day. 

Athos had a difficult time keeping himself from helping in a more substantial way, but he knew d’Artagnan would not appreciate his assistance beyond any peripheral actions.  It was challenging seeing the Gascon’s daily ups and downs without doing or saying anything about them; he’d had to content himself with being present and hoping his presence was helping rather than hindering. 

ooooooo 

Athos had shut the door after thanking Gérard, who had explained he’d waited to deliver the missive in order to avoid interrupting the four of them at the lavoir. 

He immediately broke the seal, having recognized the fact that it had come from Captain Tréville, and quickly scanned the contents. As he continued to read, his heart sank into his stomach, but he knew he must once again do his duty as ordered. Yet, this time, his whole being was rebelling against the idea. This time he wanted to put duty last, not first, as he usually was wont to do, feeling much more was at risk this time. 

He had barely reached the conclusion and signature when he’d felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw it was Porthos, who asked, “What’s wrong?” Nodding towards the letter, he added, “From your expression, I’d say it’s bad news.” 

With those words, Athos had shifted his gaze to take in the two other men in the room, who were looking to varying degrees both curious and concerned. 

Raising the letter in his hand to shoulder level, he said, “It’s from Captain Tréville. He and the King send their best wishes for your speedy recovery, d’Artagnan, and their thanks for your sacrifice. They are pleased the raiders have been dealt with and will be troubling the area no more.” 

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Aramis said, obviously forcing a light-hearted tone of voice. 

None of them had even bothered to crack a fake smile in response. 

Knowing what he had to say to them next made him feel ill in body and spirit. Involuntarily, he glanced towards d’Artagnan, who immediately became more wary and uneasy looking. 

“The Captain has also said that, normally he would allow a leisurely return to Paris as a reward, but there has been an outbreak of some kind of illness amongst the Musketeers in Paris.”—he held up a hand to forestall Aramis interrupting—“It’s not fatal, but it is severely depleting the ranks and preventing duties from being fulfilled. 

“Tréville…he has asked that two of us return immediately in order to help make up the numbers. D’Artagnan is excused and Aramis is needed to help him, so Porthos, you and I will be leaving in the morning.” 

“Athos…” Aramis said, but immediately trailed off, while Porthos nodded his agreement of what had been left unsaid. 

“I agree, my friend. I do not want to split up either, but we must. Duty calls.” 

The news had hit d’Artagnan particularly hard. Aside from being cooped up indoors when recovering from an injury, being left behind was just as bad, if not worse. One’s imagination of what could happen was almost more ruthless than any enemy you could touch. 

Another factor was the continued discord between the two of them. Splitting up would delay the talk they sorely needed to have. There was not enough time left before his and Porthos’ departure to canvass all they needed to discuss, yet he would give anything for more time to do so. 

Accidentally meeting eyes with d’Artagnan, Athos was surprised by the look of understanding in the younger man’s expression. The Gascon had then sighed in resignation and tipped his chin downward, a gesture which he had immediately returned. A truce had been offered which he had readily accepted; they were both well aware that duty must come first even when the timing was far less than ideal. 

Feeling a little lighter in spirit, he started to make plans for his and Porthos’s departure. He was just about to go downstairs to warn the innkeeper when Porthos volunteered to do it in his stead. Athos had nodded his agreement, and started to gather what belongings he had with him that had somehow managed to migrate all across their room. 

ooooooo 

Athos startled awake with a remnant of a bad dream slipping away from his now-conscious mind. Blinking himself more awake, he realized he was lying on his side facing the wall and an empty half of the bed. He felt groggy, and he had no idea who his sleeping companion had been the night before. 

As he was turning onto his back, he remembered that he had stuck to his one cup of wine as had been his habit of late. So, why did he feel as if he had drunk at least one full bottle of wine on his own? 

Despite the additional effort it would take, it had been decided that they would eat downstairs in the common room since it was their last night together for a time. D’Artagnan had protested, not wanting the others to go through the trouble, but he had been outvoted. The meal had been quite good, and the conversation only slightly awkward. When Aramis and Porthos had taken a clearly exhausted d’Artagnan back upstairs, he had gone to sit in front of the fire and finish his wine. He must have been more tired than he had thought if that was the last thing he remembered. 

Closing his eyes, he was tempted to go back to sleep for a few minutes when he’d noticed just how quiet it was in the room. Opening his eyes and sitting up in bed, Athos had quickly scanned the room using the morning light coming in through the window. He’d spotted d’Artagnan right away, noticing the younger man was also without a bedmate, and that neither Aramis nor Porthos were in the room. 

While it was not unusual for the duo to be absent from the room, what was unusual was for Porthos and Aramis to not wake him as they readied themselves for the day. He was able to understand d’Artagnan still being asleep since the younger man had been retiring early every night due to the daily sessions in the lavoir, but the usual noises the two made had not even registered in his unconscious state. 

He sat up on the edge of his bed and pinched the bridge of his nose before running a hand down his face. Lamenting the fact that a bucket of cold water was not available to dunk his head in and help him fully wake, Athos stood and had started to quietly do his stretches. It was a long ride to Paris, and it had been several days since he had last sat a horse. 

The plan was for he and Porthos to leave after the four of them had broken their fast. Normally, they would have started out on such a trip at the break of dawn, but knowing how reluctant they all were to split up, Athos had decided to delay his and Porthos’s departure for several hours. They had already lost time due to the innkeeper not immediately delivering the Captain’s missive; he did not think another few hours would make much difference. He and Porthos would have to attempt to make up some of that time on the road, but Athos was certain Tréville would understand the delay in their return. 

Athos quietly readied himself for the day, not wanting to wake d’Artagnan. After he and Porthos departed, Aramis would be left on his own to help the Gascon down to the lavoir. He cursed his stupidity for not thinking of that sooner. He should have helped Aramis come up with some alternatives so that no progress would be lost in regards to d’Artagnan’s recovery. 

Determined to seek out Aramis, he headed towards the door but was startled by the sound of someone knocking on it. Thinking it was either Aramis or Porthos with their hands full of whatever they were having for breakfast, he opened the door. 

Instead of either of his two friends, it was the innkeeper, who was holding the expected tray of food. 

“Monsieur Athos, I hope I did not disturb you.” 

“No, no, I was just expecting one of my friends.” 

Gérard suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Ah, yes. Well…uh… Messieurs Aramis and Porthos asked me to deliver a breakfast tray to you at this time.” 

“They asked you…” Athos said before trailing off as a disconcerting thought entered his mind which would explain a lot. “Where are Porthos and Aramis now?” 

The innkeeper abruptly handed him the tray of food, which Athos almost dropped, and reached into his pocket. Getting a better grip on the tray, he had noticed there was only enough food for two. His disconcerting thought had suddenly become an outright suspicion. 

“Monsieur Aramis said this,” Gérard said, holding up a folded up piece of paper and placing it on the tray with the food, “would explain everything.” 

“I’ll bet he did,” Athos said under his breath before continuing at regular volume. “Thank you, Monsieur.” 

“My pleasure,” Gérard said as he closed the door. 

Athos, tray in hand, encountered a fully-awake d’Artagnan when he had turned from the closing door. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Let me,” Athos said, indicating the tray, which he put on the table after d’Artagnan had acknowledged his intentions.

Setting the tray down, he immediately picked up the note and had begun to read. It actually consisted of two pages, but for the moment, it was the first one which was of greater import. 

“What does it say?” d’Artagnan asked. 

“It _says_ several things, but what it comes down to is this: Aramis and Porthos are dead men.” 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Forty-three:  No Choice 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing and for help with the chapter title. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	44. Chapter Forty-three: No Choice

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Forty-three: No Choice**

“Dead men?! Wha—?” d’Artagnan asked, looking alarmed. 

Athos had immediately realized his mistake. 

“Be calm. It was a poor jest on my part. Our friends are in good health; or at least they were when they _left_ earlier this morning to return to Paris.” 

He only had to wait a few moments for the news to sink in. 

“They left?! But I thought— Wait… Let me guess—” 

“If your guess has anything to do with the discord that remains between us, or the fact that they gave us both a sleeping draught so they could make their…escape unhindered,” Athos said, trying to remain calm, “then you are absolutely correct.” 

D’Artagnan’s face had immediately clouded with anger and more. The younger man let his upper body sink back onto the bed and said, “You’re right; Aramis and Porthos _are_ dead men.” 

ooooooo 

Once the upset over their friends having abandoned them had worn off, Athos had remembered their breakfast. He tried handing one of the bowls of porridge to d’Artagnan, but the younger man refused it. 

“I’m not hungry,” he said, bringing his arm up to cover his eyes and presumably avoiding any further conversation. 

Athos had wanted to argue the matter by reminding d’Artagnan that he would never regain his strength if he did not eat regularly, but he had immediately decided against it. Now that they were on their own, he would have to carefully pick his battles so that he would not make things worse between them, if that was even possible. 

Instead, he took the rejected bowl back to the table, sat down, and began to eat its contents. After only a few bites, he had discovered that he was not particularly hungry either. In the privacy of his own mind, he could admit to himself that he was practically terrified of the idea – now reality – of being left alone with d’Artagnan. Throughout this entire mission, Aramis and Porthos had been a buffer between him and his friend, and now they and that buffer were on their way back to Paris. 

Upon reflection, the fact that they had been acting as a buffer was likely the primary reason their two friends had taken the opportunity to remove themselves from the equation. The mission, d’Artagnan’s injury, him having to leave to finish their mission, and more had all created obstacles to clearing the air and settling things between the two of them. And when they were all together, it had been easy to stay out of the way and fade into the background, allowing Aramis and Porthos to take the lead. Admittedly, he had used the presence of both Porthos and Aramis to his advantage at times since he’d regained his memories to avoid confrontation and potential escalation of their discord. 

Now that their mission was concluded, d’Artagnan was on his way towards complete recovery, and they no longer had the buffer their friends provided; all the obstacles to them resolving their issues were gone. There were no more excuses to delay their long-overdue talk. Rather, there should be no more excuses, but they were both stubborn men and could likely come up with something if they put their minds to it. 

However, that did not excuse Aramis and Porthos for what they had done.  He was in charge of the mission, so technically the two had disobeyed his orders about who was to return to Paris, despite the Captain not specifying who was and was not to stay behind. In all likelihood, Tréville had assumed the same as him; that it would be Aramis and d’Artagnan who would remain behind in Saint Sulpice. The arrangement made more sense; he simply did not have enough knowledge to help someone to recover from so grave an injury, no matter how detailed Aramis’s instructions might be. 

He could not understand how Aramis had been so willing to leave a still-recovering friend behind, and suspected Porthos’s influence. They had been forced into the middle of his and d’Artagnan’s issues for far too long now, and the current situation had not helped. The arrival of their new orders had likely spurred this last minute plan of theirs. Their absence would force him and d’Artagnan to interact far more than they had in far too long. Eliminating, or at least settling, his and d’Artagnan’s issues would be needed in order to be able to work together towards the younger man’s full recovery, for he refused to consider any other outcome. 

It wasn’t the fact that Porthos and Aramis had disobeyed his orders that had him so annoyed with them; it was the fact that they had been so underhanded as to use a sleeping draught on him – and likely on d’Artagnan – to steal away at first light without being discovered. He understood their reasons for leaving, but their methods had left much to be desired. Aramis and Porthos would not escape the consequences if he had anything to say about it. He wondered if d’Artagnan felt the same way. 

ooooooo 

“What about my legs?” d’Artagnan asked out of the blue after they’d spent some time in silence. 

Before he could answer, the younger man slammed his fist down on the bed. “Argh! Damn it! I’m never going to walk out of here!” 

“I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that you will fully recover.” 

“How can you be so sure?” 

“Because you’re one of the most determined men I have ever met. You can move your legs; it seems to me that you just need to regain strength and retrain them how to work as they did before.” 

“That’s similar to something Aramis said to me a couple of days ago.” 

“Then stop doubting yourself, or the outcome.” Athos picked up the second page of the letter their friends left for them. Holding it up, he said, “Aramis left instructions on how we are to proceed. Shall we go over them?” 

“We?” 

“Problem?” Athos asked, hoping it wouldn’t be. 

D’Artagnan sighed. “It’s not as if I have a choice.” 

It took some determination of his own, but Athos chose not to reply to the comment. He knew d’Artagnan was frustrated by what had happened and was acting out; it did not mean the statement didn’t hurt, but he could understand where the younger man was coming from. Their friends had left them no choice but to keep moving forward. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Forty-four: The Fall 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	45. Chapter Forty-four: The Fall

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Forty-four: The Fall**

When he’d started skimming that page of instructions in preparation to read them aloud to d’Artagnan, Athos had known right away that his day was about to get worse. 

“What’s wrong?” d’Artagnan asked. 

“What makes—?” 

“Your expression.” D’Artagnan lazily gestured towards his own face. “You either don’t like what you just read, think I won’t like it, or both. Which is it?” 

“I’m not sure it matters in the end. Both?” Athos said and then pinched the bridge of his nose in anticipation of a headache he thought would soon be on its way. 

D’Artagnan sighed. “Just read it.” 

So he did, and he was right, d’Artagnan was not happy with Aramis’s instructions. 

“Damn it!” d’Artagnan said as he maneuvered himself to sit up against the wall. “Why’d they have to leave like that? What Aramis is suggesting seems—” 

“Like a step backward?” 

“Yes!” 

“But Aramis is right about one thing. I don’t think I could get us down the stairs without assistance, and I don’t want to risk hurting you,” Athos said, adding the word ‘again’ in the privacy of his own mind. 

D’Artagnan dropped his head into his hands, briefly hiding his face before looking up and nearly growling in frustration. 

“What about the innkeeper? Perhaps Gérard could help you get me down to the lavoir.” 

“Perhaps, but I fear the stairs would be too much of a challenge for a man of his…stature.” 

The Gascon cursed then sighed. “I know.” 

Athos moved towards the door. “I’m going to go get some hot water. Just because going to the lavoir is not possible doesn’t mean there still can’t be hot compresses.” 

“No.” 

“No?” 

“That’s what I said.” As d’Artagnan had spoken, he’d begun to very slowly move his body so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Yes, I heard wh—.  What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like?” 

“It looks like you are about to do something ill-advised,” Athos said as he started towards d’Artagnan’s bed, knowing his words had probably been just as ill-advised as what the younger man was currently doing. It was readily apparent Aramis’s instructions were going to be ignored for the time being. 

Despite the evidence of pain on the Gascon’s face, d’Artagnan had managed to throw him a pretty impressive glare over one shoulder as he’d approached, perfectly expressing exactly what the younger man had thought of that comment. Athos couldn’t help but be impressed, and also proud, of d’Artagnan’s progress even as his concern grew exponentially over the fact that the younger man had never attempted such movement on his own before this moment. 

Fortunately, (in his point of view), the bed was too low and did not provide enough leverage for d’Artagnan to be able to stand up on his own. After the first attempt, which was followed by a growl of frustration and a few choice words Porthos would be proud of, Athos had gone to stand next to the younger man, hoping the Gascon would trust him enough to help despite his recent words and their ongoing issues. 

When the second attempt had failed, Athos bent down and grasped d’Artagnan’s left wrist intending on pulling the younger man’s arm around his shoulders. The muscles of d’Artagnan’s arm beneath his hand had immediately tensed up, and for a brief moment, Athos thought the arm would be pulled out of his grasp, but it wasn’t. Instead, d’Artagnan dipped his chin slightly in acknowledgment of his intention to help. Athos had to ignore the whiplash of emotion as a result, so he could focus on supporting the younger man. 

A quick-count of three and Athos had grunted as he helped d’Artagnan to stand. It took a moment, but eventually the younger man’s stance steadied. Athos had thought this exercise in standing in place and keeping balance would last about as long as it had when Porthos and Aramis had been supporting d’Artagnan, but he was quickly proven wrong. 

Without warning, it seemed d’Artagnan had decided that just standing in place was not enough for him, and he had attempted to take a step. It was only when d’Artagnan had stretched out a hand to the wall opposite from them, that Athos had any clue of the stubborn Gascon’s intentions. However, it was not enough time to compensate for the shift in balance such an attempt had created. 

His bid to regain their balance led to his actions actually overcorrecting their stance and the two of them beginning to fall. Athos had then tried to catch himself on the wall and pull d’Artagnan up at the same time, but he was only partially successful. He had gone forward, towards the wall, while d’Artagnan had fallen to the side, the Gascon’s arm wrenching out of his grasp and from around his neck before he could try to make a grab for it. D’Artagnan fell into a heap on the floor, while he was just barely able to keep himself from falling on top of his young friend. 

As he had regained his balance, Athos had said, “D’Artagnan! Are you alright?” 

When there was no answer from the younger man, he had repeated his question, getting no response once again. He had then crouched down next to d’Artagnan who had managed to untangle his own limbs and lean his torso against the wall he had attempted to walk to.   

“d’Artagnan,” Athos had said, trying yet again to get a response. 

The younger man had his head down and was hiding his face behind the hair that had fallen around his face, refusing to speak. Giving up on trying to communicate verbally, Athos had instead reached for d’Artagnan’s arm, intending to help him up off the floor, but the arm was snatched out of his reach. Not wanting to spend much longer on the floor, he had tried again, just barely touching the Gascon’s arm when d’Artagnan had moved to push him away with enough force that he had landed on his posterior.   

Righting himself, and having just about lost his patience, Athos was about to say something he would likely quickly regret when he heard a barely stifled sniffle coming from d’Artagnan. His frustration and irritation had quickly evaporated like a puff of smoke, as if it had never been there, and his heart had broken anew for the younger man. 

Not wanting to leave the Gascon on the floor when in such an emotional state, he had resumed his crouch next to d’Artagnan, who had attempted to keep his face from being seen by him. 

Athos held up his hands and quietly, but with great emotion, said, “Please, d’Artagnan. Let me help you get back to the bed.” 

After an interminably long moment, d’Artagnan continued to say nothing, but instead he’d held out his arm, keeping his head down but indicating he would allow the help. It took several tries, and another almost-fall back to the floor, but they had made it back to the bed. 

More than once he had heard d’Artagnan valiantly attempt to keep his emotions reigned in, but the younger man had not been entirely successful. 

Throat tight from keeping his own emotions reigned in, Athos asked, “Do I need to get the physician?” 

Head still down, and still refusing to make eye contact or to speak, d’Artagnan shook his head in the negative. Athos was pretty certain the younger man was telling the truth, because he had only heard sounds related to sorrow and not pain as he’d helped get d’Artagnan back to the bed. 

While he had been aiding in getting d’Artagnan off the floor, Athos had had a moment of inspiration, something that Aramis had somehow not thought of when writing the instructions.  Sensing the younger man needed some time alone, and knowing that they were nowhere near the place they had once been at where d’Artagnan could be open with him about what he was feeling, Athos had decided to act upon his inspiration. 

“I have some things to take care of downstairs. Will you be alright on your own for a bit?” 

D’Artagnan raised his head slightly, still refusing to look him in the eye, and nodded. 

“I will order us some lunch when I go downstairs. Neither of us had much of an appetite earlier.” 

The younger man’s only response had been to shrug. Athos had taken it as acceptance of his plans, and turned to leave. 

Once he had shut the door, he heard what was unmistakably a too-long-held-back sob coming from the other side. The sheer despair that comprised that sob had managed to drive a tear from one of his own eyes in response. He so badly wanted to comfort d’Artagnan, reassure him that the fall did not mean complete failure, but Athos had known anything of the sort would be utterly rejected, regardless of the fact that there was absolutely no pity involved. 

Athos started towards the stairs, intent on taking care of his errands, and realized the recent upset had caused a headache to blossom without his having noticed it. On the spot, he had decided to resolutely ignore the pain, considering it nothing compared to what his dejected brother was feeling. 

He kept walking, despite his desire to go back and be there for his brother, yet knowing their discord was keeping them apart at a time when they should’ve have been inseparable. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Forty-five: Calm Before the Storm 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	46. Chapter Forty-five: Calm Before the Storm

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Forty-five:  Calm Before the Storm**

His errands took longer than he thought they would, though if he were honest, he would admit to purposely taking his time with each one. 

Checking on the horses had taken next to no time at all, but he’d lingered anyway, giving both some extra attention before moving on. As he left, he made a mental note to have someone take the horses out for some exercise. 

With his most important errand, Athos had gotten lucky. The cafender ***** already had stocked in his workshop almost exactly what he had been looking for – a walking stick. The only problem was that it was not finished, but rather a raw piece guaranteed to leave splinters in the hands of anyone not the cafender. It was of good quality so he requested the man, who he never bothered to learn the name of, to finish the item enough so that it would be functional. He could have asked for it to be made into a polished, decorated piece, but after the events of the morning, Athos felt expediency over fashion was more prudent. 

While the cafender was putting the finishing touches on the piece, Athos had gone for a walk towards a grove of trees that were only a short distance away. It was quiet, with no other human in sight, and he couldn’t help but enjoy the walk, feeling it lifting his spirits by small increments. Enjoying the outdoors had his old friend guilt briefly surging because he was doing something his friend was having so many difficulties with at present. Yet, he felt the need to have this time alone, and was certain d’Artagnan needed some time alone as well. 

Now that Porthos and Aramis were on their way back to Paris, he could no longer remain on the periphery or avoid d’Artagnan’s presence all together, even if that was what the younger man wanted. Both he and d’Artagnan had to come to grips over the fact that they had to depend on each other in order to get the younger man walking again. Though he was still displeased with both Aramis and Porthos, he couldn’t help but want to thank them for forcing the situation – after he made them pay for sneaking him a sleeping draught. 

As he neared the edge of the grove, he could see and hear that there was a small brook running along the opposite end of the grouping of trees. He entered the shade the trees provided, seeking out the water, and idly wondered if its source was the Risle River. The sound of the water, the cool shade the trees provided, and the sounds of the bird calls all combined to provide a sense of calm that he’d sorely needed, which helped to ease his headache. He leaned against a tree and took several slow, deep breaths, calming even more as he watched the water flow lazily down the brook. 

All too soon though, his thoughts turned towards d’Artagnan’s foolhardy and doomed attempt to walk before he was ready or able to do so. He couldn’t quite understand the reason behind such an attempt, knowing full well that d’Artagnan was barely managing to stay standing and only doing that with help. Had it been frustration with the new situation they had found themselves in? Did d’Artagnan believe he would lose patience and forsake the younger man for not immediately being able to walk? Was the distance between them so insurmountable that d’Artagnan no longer had any faith in his steadfastness and loyalty now that his memories had returned? Was he no longer trusted? 

The thoughts hurt him deeply, but he felt he deserved it, if that were the case. The way he had treated the younger man only weeks ago would have left emotional wounds that might take a long time to heal, most likely leaving permanent scars alongside the physical ones. Athos couldn’t help but remember how close they used to be before his amnesia. He’d thought they’d be friends – brothers of the heart – forever, and now it seemed like d’Artagnan barely tolerated being alone with him. 

He bent down and picked up a rock that had caught his eye. It reminded him of one he had skipped across the pond on his family’s estate back when he was a boy. He and his brother, Thomas, had defied their parents and had gone out on an adventure, ending up at the stormwater pond ***** at the far end of the estate. It hadn’t really been that big of an adventure for him, but for his little brother, it had been a grand ole time spent out and about. He had taught his brother how to skip rocks that day until Thomas was just as good as him at it. 

The memory had him deeply missing Thomas, leaving an ache in his chest. It was an ache that felt almost identical to the one he had in his chest regarding d’Artagnan. Their friendship had been rocky at first, but they had managed to forge a bond that had filled in some of the empty holes within him; he was certain it had been the same for the younger man. Yet, the longer they were at odds, the emptier he was feeling; it was as if new holes had begun appearing within his heart and soul. Suddenly, the ache in his chest flared at the thought of how much worse it must have been for d’Artagnan since he’d suffered his head injury. 

He turned the rock over and over in his hand, feeling negative emotions building despite the serene surroundings. Suddenly, he threw the rock with as much force as could muster, not caring where it landed. The action did nothing to curb his emotions, but what it did do was to provide him with a sense of resolve; resolve to finally have the talk he and d’Artagnan so badly needed. 

Emotionally speaking, it might not be the best time for such a talk, given d’Artagnan’s earlier fall and subsequent breakdown, but he didn’t think he could wait any longer. If they could just talk things through, even knowing it wasn’t his forte, then Athos was certain they could at least be able to work together to get d’Artagnan back on his feet. Perhaps they would even be able to remain on the same Musketeer squad without risking endangering themselves, their friends, or their missions. 

Fully determined this time to follow through with finally, _finally_ having a talk with d’Artagnan he made his way back to the inn. His only detour had been to pick up and pay for the now-finished walking stick he’d chosen for the younger man, admiring the fact that the cafendar had managed to do such a fine job in so short a time. 

ooooooo 

By the time he’d arrived at the inn, his fiery determination had begun to be plagued by doubt, causing him to falter just enough that he thought he needed some liquid courage before going upstairs. 

Up until now, he had managed to stick to one cup of wine with their meals, but couldn’t bring himself to feel too badly about the extra amount as it managed to soothe his nerves somewhat. While he had been drinking his wine, the innkeeper’s wife had found him and informed him that the lunch tray he had ordered had been delivered some time ago, causing him to regret taking so long to return to their room and for leaving d’Artagnan to eat on his own. 

Athos drained his cup of wine, and immediately headed back upstairs, tucking the walking stick into his weapons belt, uncertain of the reaction towards it. With a cursory knock, he walked into the room. Before he’d even had a chance to completely shut the door, he’d seen something flying towards his head. He’d managed to just barely duck out of its way in time, the object hitting the door where his head had just been and hitting the floor in a noisy clatter. 

“Go ‘way,” said d’Artagnan, badly slurring the words. “Want to—Want to be ‘lone.” 

Athos couldn’t help but stare at d’Artagnan. From the way the Gascon was handling the bottle of wine, the inn’s stock being of a better quality than most places they had previously frequented, it was apparent d’Artagnan had already imbibed most or all of the bottle. Seeing the full tray of food, he knew that there was nothing in the younger man’s stomach that could have helped to sop up all the alcohol that had been drunk. He was not thrilled with the idea of having to deal with a drunken d’Artagnan. 

Despite knowing it was almost impossible to reason with someone who wasn’t sober and pretty much hated him at the moment, he decided to try anyway. “D’Artagnan—” 

This time he saw the cup coming his way, and was easily able to catch it, preventing another loud noise which might attract the innkeeper or his wife. At least d’Artagnan had run out of cups to throw. Unfortunately, the Gascon had not yet run out of ammunition. After another drunken demand for him to leave, d’Artagnan had hefted the bottle of wine up, threatening to throw it at him. 

Despite being fairly confident he would be able to either catch or avoid the bottle, he was not interested in explaining to the innkeeper why there was glass all over the floor which needed to be cleaned up. However, he also did not want to leave the inebriated young man on his own in case something happened. 

Athos set the cup he’d caught on the ground by the wall and held up his hands in surrender. “Be calm. I’m going, but I will not be far if you need me.” 

As he’d left the room, he’d seen d’Artagnan’s sloppy smile as the younger man had mumbled, “Good. Don’t ne-need you.” 

Ignoring the pang in his chest the words had inflicted, Athos left the room. He did not fully close the door in case he was needed or if d’Artagnan tried something monumentally foolish such as attempting to get out of bed on his own. 

He sighed as he sagged against the wall next to the door of their room. After a minute, he removed his weapons belt from around his waist, taking care to not drop the new walking stick, as he sat down where he had just been standing. As quietly as possible, Athos had carefully laid his weapons belt and the walking stick on the floor next to him. 

Attempting to get more comfortable on the hard ground as he leaned his head back against the wall, Athos ran a hand down his face and sighed at this latest setback. It seemed like a cruel twist of fate that yet another incident was delaying the talk he and d’Artagnan needed to have. **  
**

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Forty-six: One Bullet 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :  **

**“ _cafender”_ :** An archaic word for ‘carpenter’. Originally, a ‘carpenter’ was someone who made carriages, and later it became associated with one who was a skilled worker in wood.  Other types of carpenters are joyners/joiners, boardwrights, shipwrights (aka chip), etc. I found _cafender_ on a list of archaic occupations via one of my genealogy sites and decided to use it. If you know the origin of the word, I’d appreciate you contacting me, because I had no luck. At one point, I considered using the word “treen maker”, but it referred to one who made wooden domestic goods, and it didn’t quite fit in my mind. ( _Treen_ means ‘made of wood’.) 

**“ _stormwater pond_ ”:**  Bodies of water that collect stormwater runoff. Two categories of stormwater ponds: detention and retention. Detention ponds provide flood control measures and are also known as dry ponds. Retention ponds hold a permanent pool of water and are referred to as wet ponds. I was originally going to use ‘retention’ instead of ‘stormwater’ but decided to go with the more generic term. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, Celticgal1041, for proofing! Mistakes are still possible because I made a few last-minute changes.


	47. Chapter Forty-six: One Bullet

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Forty-six:  One Bullet**

Athos had no idea how long he had been sitting on the hard floor of the inn’s drafty hallway. Because the door to the room was cracked open, he could occasionally hear that d’Artagnan was saying something, but couldn’t distinguish any words from amongst the drunken ramblings. 

After a while, it went quiet, and Athos began to believe d’Artagnan may have passed out from the drink. He closed his eyes and decided to give it a few more minutes before going back inside their room. 

“I know you’re sti-still out there.” 

The volume of d’Artagnan’s sudden words startled him. His eyes popped open, and he cocked his head towards the door, contemplating whether or not he should confirm the younger man’s suspicions. 

Deciding to not say anything, Athos waited to see if d’Artagnan would continue speaking, or if the younger man would go back to mumbling things he couldn’t decipher at this distance. 

“Ath-ossss,” d’Artagnan said, “I know you’re there.” 

He once again toyed with the idea of speaking up, or getting up and going back in the room, but wondered if he would come face-to-face with an empty bottle of wine if he did. After those two cups had been thrown at him, it was certainly possible, even though he knew d’Artagnan didn’t really want to cause permanent harm. 

“Athos?” 

The tone of voice caught Athos’s attention. To his ear, it sounded as if d’Artagnan was really hoping he was nearby.  It was also tinged with something else – unease? It amazed him how a single utterance of his name could evoke so much. 

However, he could not help hesitating, undecided what his response should be. What if it was the drink talking and d’Artagnan did not really want him around? 

Before he had come to a decision, he heard d’Artagnan begin to mumble some more, the volume of his voice rising to a level he could once again hear it. 

“…abandoned me again. Not surprised. Always left behind by everyone.” 

D’Artagnan had barely finished uttering half those words, before Athos had started scrambling up from his position on the floor, grabbing his weapons belt and the cane he’d purchased. Nothing short of an apocalypse would have been able to keep him from going back into their room after those words. 

Athos pushed the door open wider, stepped into the room, and said, “I am here, d’Artagnan. I have not abandoned you.” 

“But you did,” d’Artagnan said, sounding devastated and on the verge of tears.  “You did.” 

For a brief moment, Athos thought d’Artagnan was referring to leaving the younger man in order to do his earlier errands, or perhaps when he’d so recently left the Gascon alone, even though Athos had practically been forced out of the room. But then, Athos realized that the emotions he was seeing and hearing on the younger man’s face and in his voice ran much, much deeper. They referred to an acute hurt, one that he had inflicted. 

“I didn’t mean to abandon you,” Athos said, leaning his weapons belt and the cane against the wall and stepping closer to his distressed friend’s bed. “I would never choose to do that.” 

“But you did.” 

He wondered if he should point out that his ‘abandonment’ had been unintentional, that with his memories stolen from him, he’d had no choice, but he decided not to. Athos grabbed the nearest chair, set it beside d’Artagnan’s bed, and sat down. 

Leaning forward towards the younger man, he said, “I know. I am sorry.” 

“You’re sorry…” d’Artagnan said with a huff of sarcastic laughter. “ _Everyone_ was sorry. But all the “sorrys” in the world couldn’t make things better.” 

D’Artagnan lifted the bottle of wine that was still in his hand up to his lips, yet nothing but a drop or two of wine came out. The younger man then looked at the bottle as though it had betrayed him, causing Athos to briefly wonder if he would have to prevent it from being thrown across the room. Thankfully, d’Artagnan set it on the floor instead, the bottle briefly threatening to topple over before managing to remain upright. 

Before he could say anything in reply to d’Artagnan’s recent words, the younger man mumbled, “One bullet.” 

“What?” 

“One bullet. All it took was one bullet to take my best friend away from me. One bullet to take all my closest friends from me. One bullet to make me wonder if we had ever truly been friends. One bullet to…” 

While d’Artagnan had been speaking, Athos badly wanted to contradict the younger man’s words, but he could not. When d’Artagnan had trailed off and not continued, he knew he had to hear the words no matter how much pain they brought him. 

“To what, d’Artagnan?” he asked. 

D’Artagnan rubbed his already-red eyes and shook his head, indicating he didn’t want to answer. 

“D’Artagnan…” 

The Gascon shook his again once more, and hid his face in his hands. 

Athos risked laying a hand on one of d’Artagnan’s arms to gently tug them away. Surprisingly, the younger man let him. 

“One bullet to take my brothers, my family, away from me and remind me just how alone in the world I truly am.” D’Artagnan’s face scrunched up in anguish, and the tears which were filling his eyes spilled out, running unchecked down his face. 

Athos’s throat closed up, his emotions practically choking him. Brothers? Family? Once again he cursed his inability to express his true feelings. He wanted to confess that he had considered d’Artagnan a brother of the heart for some time now, but felt it was not the right time. Not when d’Artagnan was drunk and incapable of taking the words for what they were – the truth – despite all that had recently happened between them. He decided to wait for a more opportune time to admit his feelings of brotherhood to d’Artagnan.  Hopefully, that opportunity would come along soon rather than not at all. 

The younger man’s next words were a thousand daggers tearing his heart to pieces. 

“Why do you hate me so much?” 

Athos had to swallow several times to get his throat working. “I do not hate you; I could never truly hate you.” 

“But you did! I know you did. I could see it in your eyes, hear it in your words, and feel it with your actions.” 

“To answer that to your and my satisfaction, I believe I should wait until you are not so drunk and out of sorts, and can actually remember what I’ve said.” He held his hand up to prevent d’Artagnan from interrupting. “But, for now, please remember this one thing: that I never hated you. Not in the way I think you mean. _Never_. Alright?” 

D’Artagnan looked at him, seemingly searching his face for the truth behind his words. Athos, instead of reining back his emotions, let them shine through. After a minute, d’Artagnan nodded his acceptance, and then yawned. 

“Promise me. Promise me you’ll tell me why you hate me so much.” 

With those words, Athos’s decision to not explain why his amnesiac-self had disliked d’Artagnan had been validated. The Gascon was simply not currently capable of comprehending his answer. 

“I promise,” he said. 

With another yawn, and the slow opening and closing of his eyes, d’Artagnan nodded his acceptance of the promise. 

“Good,” the Gascon said continuing to fight going to sleep. 

“It’s alright. You can sleep now*,” Athos said as he recalled how he had voiced those exact words not so long ago, and hoping the younger man would once again pay heed to them. 

D’Artagnan’s bleary, red-eyed expression came to rest upon his face; it was easy to see the uncertainty on the younger man’s face. It was clear that d’Artagnan did not quite believe he would keep his promise or that he would never willingly, purposely abandon or hate his younger brother. But eventually, the over-indulgence of drink conspired with the emotions of the day to overwhelm the Gascon, and soon d’Artagnan was asleep. 

Athos adjusted the covers so that they would be more effective in keeping the younger man warm throughout the night. 

“Hopefully, you’ll be able to remember this in the morning.” Athos gently patted d’Artagnan’s arm and readjusted the covers more to his liking. 

“I do not envy you the headache you will have when you awake. But in the meantime, rest well and dream of walking again *****.” 

ooooooo 

_To be continued._ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Forty-seven:  Disembodied Voices, Part One 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**“ _It’s alright. You can sleep now_.”:** Quoted from “Chapter Twenty-four: Damage Control”. 

**“ _I do not envy you the headache you will have when you awake. But in the meantime, rest well and dream of walking again._ ”:**  Based on a quote from the movie _The Princess Bride_ (1987); screenplay and book written by William Goldman.  When I realized how close the words I had originally written were to the movie quote, I decided to go ahead and use it instead. In order to better fit my story, I had to edit it from “large women” to “walking again.”  The original line was said by the Man in Black/Westley to Fezzik. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are the fault of poltergeists and/or Trick-or-Treaters.


	48. Chapter Forty-seven: Disembodied Voices, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  Please note: This chapter is part one of two. Real life has been crazy busy lately, so I decided to split Chapter 47 in order to gain a bit of a writing and posting buffer.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Forty-seven: Disembodied Voices**, Part One**

Athos had not intended to fall asleep, but he had been reading a volume from his multi-volume copy of Marcus Aurelius’ _Meditations_ , ***** and must have dropped off at some point. With the lingering effects of his head injury, he’d been finding it difficult to read for any amount of time, but decided to slip the slim volume in with his things anyway. It was the first time he’d even thought to take it out and read it, given all that had happened on their mission. 

He looked over at the candle sitting on the small table between the beds, noting how far it had burned down. The thought it must be fairly late in the night was just entering his head when he heard a low groan coming from the other bed. Athos thought it possible another such sound may have been what had awakened him in the first place. 

Setting the book aside, Athos sat up and moved to sit on the edge of his bed, waiting to see if d’Artagnan would come fully awake or remain asleep. Another low groan was uttered accompanied by eyes struggling to open. 

When he saw the sliver of brown from his friend’s eyes, he quietly said, “The chamber pot is on one side of the bed and a bucket on the other, should you need either – or both.” 

After d’Artagnan had fallen asleep earlier – and stayed asleep – Athos had taken the opportunity to lay in some supplies he’d thought might be needed, including the bucket and some food that would not spoil too quickly. He’d hated leaving the younger man so soon after their recent talk about abandonment, but he felt it could not be helped. In the bucket’s case especially, he thought it more prudent to be prepared in case d’Artagnan’s insides suddenly wanted to be on the outside. Dreading d’Artagnan would wake to find him gone, and thus confirm what the younger man had so recently said about him, Athos had rushed through his preparations. Thankfully, d’Artagnan had apparently remained asleep, and had never known he had been away from the room. 

D’Artagnan groaned again, and sluggishly lifted a hand first to his forehead, before covering his eyes. Athos thought he heard a garbled, “Oh, God,” which had him smirking slightly, remembering the times he’d done and said the exact same things when hungover. 

The Gascon slowly rolled his head towards Athos, and lifted the hand covering his eyes, causing him to blink multiple times in order to adjust to the low light in the room. 

“What happen’d?” 

“You don’t remember?” Athos asked as he poured some watered-down wine into one of the cups d’Artagnan had thrown at him earlier and offered it to the younger man. 

D’Artagnan sat up just enough to lean his shoulders and head against the wall, turning vaguely green for few moments and making Athos think the bucket would soon be needed. However, d’Artagnan managed to breathe through the apparent urge to vomit, and indicated he wanted the offered cup. 

Handing it back to Athos after drinking some of its contents, d’Artagnan said, “No. No, I remember. Are you going to keep your promise?” 

“Of course. Now?” Athos asked, suddenly feeling slightly anxious about the conversation to come. 

Briefly shaking his head in the negative, d’Artagnan gestured vaguely towards the direction of the chamber pot. “Give me a few minutes?” 

Athos nodded, and went to get some food from the table on the other side of his bed in order to give the young man some privacy. He put some bread and cheese on each of two plates, choosing and slicing an apple for d’Artagnan and a pear for himself. By the time he was finished, d’Artagnan was back to his original semi-reclined position. 

When d’Artagnan looked ready to refuse the meal being offered, Athos said, “Please eat. Neither of us have had anything in almost a day.” 

“Are you sure you’re not stalling?” the younger man asked. 

“Maybe a little,” Athos said with a slight shrug and a small yet brief grin, “but from experience, I know it would be better for your hangover if your stomach wasn’t also empty.” 

“Alright,” d’Artagnan said, taking the plate from him. 

They ate in silence, and Athos resumed thinking about how to explain his behavior towards d’Artagnan while he’d struggled with amnesia. And, in many ways, he didn’t think he would be able to fully explain. All he could hope for was that some remnant of the close bond they had once shared still existed, which would allow d’Artagnan to hear what _wasn’t_ being just as much as what actually _was_ being said. 

ooooooo 

When they’d both been reduced to picking at the food remaining on their plates, Athos stood from the table he’d eaten at to collect d’Artagnan’s plate. Though the younger man had not cleaned his plate, or consumed as much as he had hoped, Athos had been happy to see that at least the apple had been eaten. At least some things never changed; given the evidence, or lack thereof, d’Artagnan’s love of apples seemingly remained intact. 

“How is your stomach?” Athos asked. 

“Better. You were right about eating. My head is pounding, but not quite as badly.” 

Athos hadn’t needed d’Artagnan to admit to the continuing headache for him to see the pain written plainly on the younger man’s face. “Aramis left some medicine for my headaches. I can get it if—” 

“I’ve noticed it knocks you out, so I probably shouldn’t.” 

“How about a much smaller dose? One that would hopefully take the edge off your hangover without making you sleepy.” 

D’Artagnan nodded reluctantly his acceptance of the compromise, and Athos set about doctoring a cup of watered wine for the younger man. 

Athos grabbed one of the room’s chairs, and was just about to drag it over to the bed so that the two of them would be able to talk, but d’Artagnan stopped him. 

“Don’t you think this conversation will be difficult enough”—D’Artagnan rubbed his forehead and took another drink of the pain draught he had been given—“without us having to stare at each other during it?”  

Athos wasn’t about to disagree, but he didn’t know how else they could get through this conversation. It wasn’t as if they could go out for a ride on their horses as they had on occasion done in the past in order to work out issues that had cropped up between them. 

“Remember that night in that duke’s chateau when his lady had suddenly gone into labor?” 

Athos was momentarily thrown by the non sequitur, but he nodded, recalling being hurried to their shared quarters and then being promptly forgotten about.  He also recalled believing they’d been lucky to obtain provisions for the road before leaving the next morning. 

“Unfortunate timing on our part.” 

“With the lady’s screams echoing throughout the place, it was impossible to sleep, and we ended up talking the night away.” 

“Our candle had gone out, and we had not been given a spare. We had to stay put or risk breaking our necks, but I think I understand what you’re getting at.” 

D’Artagnan continued to speak as Athos replaced the chair and began preparing for bed. 

“It was not long after we had all learned of your noble past and I’d learned about—.” D’Artagnan got more comfortable, carefully turning partially on his side to face towards Athos’s bed. “You’d been avoiding me, but then we’d been assigned together on that mission. I believe being in the dark made it somehow easier for us to get past our problems to the point we could talk about anything and everything. That wall you’d thrown up between us, because you regretted me learning one of your secrets, was torn down that night. I finally felt as if I could call you my friend and truly believed you had thought the same.” 

By the time the younger man had finished speaking Athos was in his own bed. “I did. I _do_.” 

The skeptical look on d’Artagnan’s face was not encouraging. Athos gestured towards the sputtering candle. “Shall I?” 

D’Artagnan smirked. “I don’t know. Do we have a spare?”  

Athos rolled his eyes and blew the candle out. The sudden darkness warred with the after-image of the candle’s flame in front of his eyes for a time as he got comfortable and hoped the right words would come to mind. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Forty-seven: Disembodied Voices, Part Two 

**ooooooo**

 

 **Story/History Notes :  **

**_Marcus Aurelius’_ Meditations:** Also considered a Stoic philosopher, Marcus Aurelius (121-180 AD) was emperor of the Roman Empire from 167-180 AD. Never intended to be published, and having no official title, what today we sometimes call _Meditations_ was written in Greek (instead of his native Latin) from 170-180 AD. Considering the themes and topics of _Meditations,_ and what has occurred in this story, it amuses me that Athos would be reading it at this point. 

**_**Disembodied Voices_ :** The chapter and its title were inspired by the song of the same name by the Finn Brothers from their album “Everyone is Here” (2004).  The lyrics are more appropriate for Part Two, so I’ll post them at the end of that chapter. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger, but I felt it the best place to stop. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter. Remaining mistakes are the fault of my tired brain missing them.


	49. Chapter Forty-seven: Disembodied Voices, Part Two

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Forty-seven: Disembodied Voices**, Part Two**

For several minutes, Athos struggled with how to begin his explanation. More than once, he’d opened his mouth to say something before closing it again while shaking his head in hopes of getting his thoughts in order. 

Out of the silent darkness, d’Artagnan said, “You’ve said you didn’t hate me, but hate was all I felt from you. You never allowed any chance of us getting to know each other again. Why?” 

Athos thought back to that first awakening. The memory was a little unclear, but he recalled how happy he’d been to see Thomas and the bitter disappointment which quickly followed when he realized the person leaning over him was _not_ his little brother. 

“I should probably begin by telling you more about my life before I came to Paris and joined the Musketeers.” 

“What does that have to do with—?” 

Athos had gestured for d’Artagnan to listen, but he soon realized it could not been seen in the dark.  “Please, just… I hope that will eventually become more apparent.” 

“Fair enough. I apologize.” 

He nodded his acceptance of the apology before making a frustrated noise and mentally cursing the dark for this second bout of forgetfulness. 

“You just nodded, didn’t you?” d’Artagnan said, amusement clearly in his voice. 

“Yes,” Athos replied, knowing his tone sounded more than a little petulant. 

D’Artagnan tried – and failed – to hide his continued amusement as he said, “You were saying.” 

“I was nearly six years old before my brother, Thomas, was born. Up until then it had been a pretty lonely existence, because I was not allowed to associate with any children who were not of noble lineage. I would see them at church or around the estate, and long for a friend or, better yet, a sibling. Then Thomas was born. 

“In my naïveté, I believed I would finally have a playmate of my own, and kicked up a fuss to see him. When my governess finally gave in, I was handed a baby. That’s when I realized my brother had to grow up a little first before we could play. 

“I still remember introducing myself to him…” 

_Finally a little more comfortable in what he was doing, Olivier lifted his left hand and brushed a finger up and down his brother’s tiny cheek a few times. Thomas shifted a little, but did not wake, and he marveled at how soft the skin was and how chubby the cheeks were. Olivier wished Thomas was awake, because he was curious to know what the little babe might think of his big brother.  
_

_“Hello, Thomas. I am your older brother, Olivier. It is my duty to watch over you and keep you safe.”  
_

_With those words, his brother opened his eyes and started to flail an arm in the air. Olivier caught it and squeezed the little hand gently, feeling a slight pressure in return. The pressure might have been unintended but, to him, it felt like they had sealed a bargain. He would take care of his brother – always._ *****

“Athos?” 

With a start, he recognized he must have stopped speaking and had been reminiscing about a time that so many years later was still clear as crystal to him. 

He cleared his throat and continued, “That first day I promised I would take care of him, protect him. Thomas was not as studious as I, nor did he have the future of our family upon his shoulders. When I could, I helped him with his studies, his swordsmanship; we even managed to find time to go off by ourselves for our little ‘adventures.’ He was everybody’s favorite, but I didn’t care, because he was my favorite as well. My younger brother was my best friend, and for the most part, my only friend. 

“I had barely been in my majority when a sickness swept through la Fère and the surrounding area. Almost no one was spared becoming ill, and many died, including both my parents. Thomas barely got sick, while I just barely made it through alive. 

“Everything changed when my parents passed...” 

Athos sighed as memories flashed through his mind of that time. He’d still been too ill to attend the funeral, leaving the burden of it all on Thomas. It was the first of many times to come wherein he’d failed in his promise to take care of and protect his younger brother. 

D’Artagnan’s softly voiced, “My condolences,” prompted him to continue with his story. 

“I was suddenly the Comte de la Fère and had a vast estate to run. Thomas helped where he could, but being so young, he was still pretty firmly entrenched in his grief. Because of my duties, our time together was constantly being cut short. It wasn’t long before I felt buried under the weight of the new title and all of its inherent responsibilities. I was nearly overwhelmed by it all. ***** Somehow I managed to find a balance with Thomas’s eventual help.” 

“In due course, _She_ came along,” Athos said, hearing bitterness and regret in his words and knowing he need not explain who he was talking about. 

“ _She_ came, and I fell hard for her. I broke off a betrothal that my father had arranged when I was a child just to marry her. I loved her, and we were happy – or so I thought.” 

“Athos, you don’t—” 

“But I do, d’Artagnan. If you are to understand, then I do.” 

As d’Artagnan murmured his acceptance, Athos rubbed at his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew he had to tell this story in order to have d’Artagnan understand, but he couldn’t deny the cost to his heart and soul. 

“One day there was a scream, and my whole world imploded. Thomas’s betrothed had said that _She_ had…murdered my brother. My wi— _She_ protested that she had done it in self-defense, that my brother had tried to…force himself on her. It was a lie; Thomas had papers stating that _She_ had been lying to me from the beginning. My brother must have been confronting her, and _She_ killed him to prevent him from talking. 

“As magistrate of my lands, I had the authority to impose sentence. _She_ was to hang.”—Athos let out a mirthless chuckle—“You know how well that turned out. 

“The sick and twisted part to this tale is that I still love her, or the idea of the woman she had been when we were happy. My brother’s murderer…” 

Athos sighed, knowing this next part of his story would be just as difficult to impart. “When I first opened my eyes that day, in my initial confusion, I thought _you_ were Thomas.” 

“Me?” 

“Yes, you. With your similar coloring and my blurred vision… For a short time, I had my brother back again, thought he was still alive. Then, all too soon, reality crashed in. You were _not_ my brother. He had been murdered. I had failed him in the most fundamental way by bringing that _woman_ into my household. 

“It wasn’t that I hated you, d’Artagnan… In my right mind, I could never… It was that…perfect storm when I first awoke. Memories I would rather forget. Pain beyond belief. A stranger hovering over me. Confusion. Thinking something had happened to my friends. But most importantly, you were not my brother. You were not him at a time when I dearly wanted you to be him. It was as if Thomas had died all over again; I had _failed_ him all over again. The negative impressions I formed in those brief moments took root, flourished, and continued to thrive until the day you got shot and my memories returned. 

“I had no choice in losing those memories, but I did have choices in how I treated you. I could’ve chosen to give you the benefit of the doubt, simply because you are a Musketeer. I could’ve chosen to believe our friends when they explained who you are to me, and not rebuffed you at every turn. Not tormented you while we were on duty. Not made you sacrifice your friendships with Porthos and Aramis.  I could’ve chosen to _not_ do many things, and instead chosen to have treated you with common courtesy, respect, and basic human kindness. 

“I had choices, but made _all_ the wrong ones regarding you and our friendship. And I cannot express my regret or give you an apology in any way that would ever be sufficient enough to even _begin_ to make up for all I did do to you. But I will try regardless. I apologize with all of my heart, and hope one day you can forgive me.” 

ooooooo 

Silence descended when he finished speaking. He hadn’t known what to expect, but complete silence was _not_ it. 

After a few minutes, Athos began to think it possible d’Artagnan had fallen asleep, and had not actually heard the most important part of his story – or his apology. 

He could hear the younger man’s regular inhalations and exhalations, but aside from that, the silence persisted. Was d’Artagnan merely digesting what he had said? Was d’Artagnan contemplating whether or not he could even begin to forgive? 

Another long, quiet moment passed before Athos finally gave in and said, “D’Artagnan?” 

The younger man did not immediately respond. Just before he was going to say the Gascon’s name again, d’Artagnan exhaled a shaky breath and replied, “I’m here.” 

Athos waited as the tone of voice clearly indicated there was more to be said. He heard some rustling of the bed clothes, and it was almost another minute before d’Artagnan spoke again. 

“Thank you for explaining that to me,” d’Artagnan said before exhaling another shaky breath. “Good night.” 

That’s it? Anger bubbled up within him. He had bared his soul, let the younger man know more about his family and his days before the Musketeers than anyone else had ever managed to get out of him, and apologized. Yet, _that’s_ how d’Artagnan responds? 

It was a very near thing, but he managed to contain his anger, and kept himself from saying something he would’ve immediately regretted. When seen from another light, he could understand the response. It was a lot of information to process in so short a time. And had he really expected that this one talk, this one apology, would be enough for d’Artagnan to forgive? Athos wasn’t even sure he deserved forgiveness after everything he had done. Why should d’Artagnan? 

He slowly inhaled and exhaled in order to calm his knee-jerk reaction to d’Artagnan’s abrupt ending of their conversation. 

“Good night,” Athos said in what he hoped was an even tone of voice. 

Athos couldn’t help but think that neither of them would be getting much sleep for the rest of the night. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Forty-eight: Tempest 

**ooooooo**

 

 **Story/History Notes :**

**“ _Finally a little more comfortable in what he was doing, … … He would take care of his brother – always.”_ :** The entire passage was lifted directly from “Chapter Fourteen:  Brother’s Keeper” of my story, _Almost Family_ , which was a companion piece to Celticgal1041’s story, _Family_. In _Almost Family_ , I wrote tags for each chapter of Celticgal’s story, often being inspired to write prequels. Forgive me for quoting an older story and not wanting to reinvent the wheel, so to speak. Honestly, I still really like that chapter and thought it appropriate for this story. If you want a little more about Athos as a six-year-old meeting his baby brother, Thomas, for the first time, then I suggest reading chapter 14 of _Almost Family_. 

**“ _Thomas helped where he could, but he was still…  I was nearly overwhelmed by it all._ ”:** This paragraph was paraphrased from “Chapter Twenty-three: A Father’s Pride” from my story, _Almost Family_. Again, I felt it unnecessary to reinvent the wheel regarding my headcanon for Athos’s background. 

**_**Disembodied Voices_ :** The chapter and its title were inspired by the song of the same name by the Finn Brothers from their album “Everyone is Here” (2004).  

Talking with my brother when the lights went out  
Down the hallway forty years ago  
And what became much harder was so easy then  
Opening up and letting go 

Disembodied voices  
Floating in the air  
This place in the darkness  
Could be anywhere 

Talking to each other as we wait for sleep  
The angel in the detail soon arrives  
Spreading her wings over every memory  
And keeping all our hopes alive 

Disembodied voices  
Floating in the air  
This place in the darkness  
Could be anywhere 

We all made our choices  
Let's work out what we're going to do  
Disembodied voices  
Revealing what we know is true  
And so much is here  
If we all disappear 

We could be anywhere  [ _repeated multiple times_ ]

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A certain someone insisted on relaying his point of view in the next chapter…
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	50. Chapter Forty-eight: Tempest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  Considering how the last chapter ended, I thought it might be a good idea to give some insight into d’Artagnan’s thought processes.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Forty-eight:  Tempest**

Before Athos had even finished speaking, d’Artagnan was already feeling completely overwhelmed by everything he was hearing. 

He hadn’t known what to expect, and tried listening with an open mind. Learning about Thomas, Athos becoming comte, Athos’s wife, and the murder of the older man’s brother… D’Artagnan had never expected to learn so much about Athos’s life before the Musketeers. Up until now, he’d known very little of the man’s past, but now it all seemed far too much; he felt as if he’d mistakenly been made privy to something intimate, something he shouldn’t know anything about. 

D’Artagnan couldn’t help but wonder if Aramis and Porthos knew even half this much. Athos had always seemed such a private person; to learn even one-fifth of what he now knew was surprising. Yet, Athos had been right. It had eventually become painfully clear why the older man had needed to tell him as much as he had. 

In the beginning, he couldn’t help but smile at the reference to Athos as a young child. Then, as Athos spoke of the loneliness he’d felt as he longed for a brother, d’Artagnan remembered his own longing for a sibling. A brief flicker of jealousy had flared within him at the first mention that Athos had had his wish for a sibling granted. That flicker of jealousy had swiftly been replaced by guilt and regret when he remembered the shocking end to Thomas’s life. 

With the first mention of Athos’s wife, d’Artagnan knew that shocking end was coming, how the story would unfold, and he tried to stop the older man from continuing, but Athos had insisted. D’Artagnan had said something; he couldn’t remember what anymore, knowing the toll that part of the story would take on Athos. Because of the amnesia, the older man had already had to carry the burden of his actions surrounding his brother’s death twice now. How much was this recounting going to cost the man? 

Despite everything that had gone on between them, he still didn’t want Athos to suffer – and that included taking more damage to the man’s already beat up heart and soul. Yet, he knew there was a point to the overall story, one that would provide an answer to his question by the end of it. For that reason alone, and selfish though it might be, he let the tale continue to unfold. 

When the inescapable conclusion to that part of the story came, he’d at first been glad he had been spared the pain of losing a sibling. Then, the realization had struck him that he knew _exactly_ how that felt. For some time now, Athos had been lost to him – a man who he had once considered one of his three older brothers. He knew that pain all too well now, and wasn’t sure he could or would ever forget it. 

Yet, even that wasn’t the most devastating part of Athos’s tale. 

What had taken him totally unawares and struck him dumb was the older man’s admission of how and why Athos had come to hate him so much. The older man had been adamant it was not “hate,” but in his opinion it was close enough. It had certainly felt like hate to him more often than not. 

Athos had briefly, in his pain and confusion – and likely fear – thought _he_ had been Thomas! From the painting that had been in the gallery at Athos’s manor house, he’d noticed that he and Thomas had similar coloring, but did not look enough alike for them to be mistaken for each other had they ever been in the same room together. It had been the realization that he had _not_ been Thomas which had been the catalyst for Athos turning against him. 

Athos had called it a perfect storm. It occurred to him that “perfect storms” seemed to be the story of his life. His mother’s death, which had taken away his only chance of having a sibling, and being taught the sword to lift his and his father’s spirits. His father’s murder coinciding with meeting the Musketeers and making the decision to start over in Paris. The loss of his farm and income as well as Constance, followed shortly by becoming the King’s Champion and gaining his commission. Athos getting shot and having amnesia, resulting in d’Artagnan losing his friends and what seemed to be everything else, simply because he hadn’t been a blood brother. Athos in danger and saving the man’s life, only to get shot, lose his ability to walk, and facing an uncertain future. 

A perfect storm… He was so very tired of such things occurring in his life. In his mind, the word “perfect” had evolved to refer to something different than originally intended, it’s meaning supplanted just as Aramis and Porthos continued to tell him that his definition of “fine” was not like everyone else’s. 

To hear about all of the wrong choices that had been made only served to remind him of the near-constant emotional upheaval that had been recently been plaguing his life. Athos’s confession to having made all the wrong ones regarding him had bestowed an odd sort of relief upon him. If any one of those choices had been made differently, he imagined his life could have been much easier to bear these past weeks. He wondered how different things could have been had some of the _right_ choices been made. Would he have felt so alone? Would he still have had doubts about remaining a Musketeer? 

The apology had been expected and hoped for in equal measure, but what he hadn't expected was for it to be so heartfelt. Athos had a way of imparting so much more subtext and emotion into his words than almost everyone he had ever known. Even in the absolute darkness of their room, the way the older man had phrased his words, had enabled d'Artagnan to easily picture Athos's expression and stance as if the man had been standing right in front of him to apologize. He was absolutely certain Athos meant every word even though there had been such an economy of them. They had come from the depths of the man’s heart and soul. 

He’d wanted and _deserved_ an apology for so, so long… A thrill of intense satisfaction went through him upon hearing it said. But it was soon chased by uncertainty. Not every wrong had been addressed. Were the words enough of an apology regardless of how heartfelt they were? Was it enough for Athos to say that he would try to make up for his wrong choices? 

Could he forgive? _Should_ he forgive? 

His turbulent thoughts were interrupted by Athos calling his name.  

So overwhelmed by what he’d recently heard, d’Artagnan couldn’t bring himself to immediately respond to Athos. The endless loop of thoughts, emotions, and questions was leaving him feeling out of sorts as a result. 

D’Artagnan knew he had to say something, so he exhaled a shaky breath and replied, “I’m here.” 

He wanted to say more, wanted to delve deeper into the choices and hurts, but d’Artagnan couldn’t seem to organize his thoughts now that he had realized Athos was waiting for some sort of response. His thoughts were a whirlwind within his mind refusing to slow down and coalesce into anything truly coherent. 

Even the two words he had just uttered had been difficult to pluck out of his head and get his tongue to speak. In this moment, he desperately wanted the conversation to end; his head was too full and he couldn’t stand the idea of the whirlwind getting larger within his mind, afraid his head might burst if it continued to grow. 

Clarity of thought seemed impossible in the near future. He needed time to calm the tempest within him and consider all he had heard so he could formulate a worthy response. Right now, he simply couldn’t. So, he said the only thing he could think to say, despite knowing Athos would not react well to it. 

D’Artagnan repositioned himself so that he was lying on his back once more and fixed his covers before he said, “Thank you for explaining that to me.” Exhaling another shaky breath in an attempt to contain the emotions which were bubbling up and over within him, he added, “Good night.” 

Immediately, he could feel Athos’s shift in mood despite the darkness that encompassed them. He was certain the older man was becoming angry with him for seemingly brushing Athos off after all the intimate details that had recently been imparted. D’Artagnan knew how difficult it was for Athos to share anything of his previous life, but the absence of a more suitable reaction could not be helped. He was not blithely or callously disregarding all he had heard, but it was simply too much for him to handle at the moment. 

Time. That was all he needed right now. He needed time for the whirlwind to die down so he could process what he’d heard. 

Expecting harsh words in reprisal, d’Artagnan was surprised to instead hear a controlled breath, one intended to calm, before he heard Athos reply, “Good night.”  

It was a good attempt at an even tone of voice, but d’Artagnan could still hear the frustration and annoyance in the space between the two words that had been spoken. 

D’Artagnan wondered if either of them would be able to get any sleep after this first true talk between them since before Athos’s amnesia. At the moment, it didn’t seem very likely. **  
**

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Forty-nine: Deliberations 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to all those who are celebrating the holiday this week! I am very thankful to everyone who takes the time out of their busy schedules in order to continue to read and review this story. Thank you!
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	51. Chapter Forty-nine: Deliberations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D’Artagnan’s point of view is continued in this chapter.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Forty-nine: Deliberations**

Occasionally, d’Artagnan could hear the rustling of Athos’s bedcovers and the creak of the bed frame as the older man shifted position once again. For him, the expert at feigning sleep due to his bouts of insomnia, it was easy to tell that Athos was having a difficult time settling down for what was left of the night. Athos was restless, but trying to pretend he wasn’t. 

To some degree, d’Artagnan felt guilty for his part in why Athos was having a difficult time getting back to sleep. The Gascon recognized how extremely difficult it must have been for someone as private as Athos to explain the reasons behind his actions. He could easily imagine how difficult a time the man was having in keeping himself from reliving the unearthed memories over and over again. 

Of course, d’Artagnan had not made things any easier by abruptly ending their conversation when things got too overwhelming for him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Athos was thinking his explanation and sincere apology had been outright rejected. An effort could be made to correct that misconception, but he didn’t think it wise to attempt such a thing before he could finish processing everything he’d heard. He needed some more time, and hoped Athos would understand when they next talked. 

Since they had said their good nights, he had only moved once in order to shift into a more comfortable sleeping position. As with many other nights, he began regulating his breathing to imitate one who was asleep. He was fairly certain Athos was convinced he was out for the night. 

His insomnia was trying to reassert itself, but his recovering body was fighting for the rest it sorely needed. However, there was also his mind, which was in turmoil, and didn’t really care about sleep one way or the other. Thus, within him, there was a three-way tug of war to see which would win. Deciding there was no point to staring out into the dark room, he closed his eyes. 

D’Artagnan had lost count of how many times Athos’s tale had gone through his mind since he’d first heard it. The same could be said for how many different emotions he’d felt. He wasn’t even sure he could name all of them, since some, like jealousy, had come and gone in a single beat of his heart. 

And really it didn’t matter, because he still felt overwhelmed by it all; he needed to focus on trying to get his thoughts in order. At the forefront of his thoughts were two questions that had been swirling in and around the whirlwind within his heart and mind: 

_Could he forgive? Should he forgive?_

He knew how his mother would answer that second question. She had been a firm believer in forgiveness; it was one of the few things he could still remember her teaching him before she had passed away. 

In some ways, before the man had even begun speaking, d’Artagnan felt he had already started down the path towards forgiving Athos. And, since returning from completing their mission, Athos’s actions had been demonstrating the older man was on a path towards repentance. Neither path was an easy one; they were both long and winding, both full of obstacles and stumbling blocks. In seemed inevitable that they were destined to converge, and over the past day, they had. 

Forgiving Athos did not necessarily mean he had to condone what had been said and done to him. It didn’t mean he had to forget the wrongs committed against him. His dented self-confidence was certainly not going to forget anytime soon. 

_If there is true repentance, then forgiveness is a must_ , his mother had said more than once. In his heart, he truly believed that Athos was repentant, sorry for every wrong perpetrated against him. Knowing that, how could he in good conscience withhold his forgiveness? 

His mother had also taught him that forgiveness was more about you than the other person. It freed you from the weight of the resentment and anger which rested upon your shoulders. Holding on to all the negativity had done him no good these past weeks, and he no longer wanted it entrenched in his mind and soul. Perhaps if he forgave, then he would be better able to concentrate on regaining the ability to walk. Perhaps it was time to make peace with how Athos had treated him when not in his right mind. 

Whether or not their friendship could be restored to how it was before the amnesia was another matter entirely. Forgiveness did not necessarily mean their friendship would suddenly be as it was before that one bullet had changed everything. The man’s memories had returned, and Athos seemed willing to do be there for him again, but the wounds inflicted upon him, both physical and emotional, were still too raw, too fresh. He was having a difficult time trusting Athos would not forsake him again. 

Trust was another issue. He implicitly trusted Athos with his life, and he trusted the older man would remain steadfast in helping him regain his ability to walk. However, he wasn’t anywhere near as certain he could ever trust Athos with his heart going forward. All the little digs, slights, and unfair treatment of the recent past were still rattling around in the forefront his memories and were still too fresh for him to be willing to let the older man know even half of what he was thinking about at the moment. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until he had opened his eyes to discover it wasn’t quite as dark as it should be for the middle of the night. Rather, he thought it wouldn’t be too much longer until the sun rose above the horizon. 

His mind drifted, thinking about nothing in particular. For the moment, his mind was at peace, something that was more than welcome after the last time he had been awake. 

All too soon, Athos’s tale, and how overwhelmed he had felt after hearing it, had intruded upon that peace. It was not quite the tempest it had previously been, but his heart and mind were still too full. Yet, he thought he knew what he wanted to do and say in response to Athos’s apology. 

Slowly, he inhaled and then exhaled, listening to the relative quiet surrounding him. That’s when he realized it was a little too quiet. From below, there were the sounds of the innkeepers readying things for the day. Outside the room, there was the occasional short refrain of birdsong. Inside, apart from his own breathing, he could hear nothing. 

Against the sound of his quickening heartbeat, he strained his ears towards the other side of the room – and heard nothing. Now paranoid and unable to stand it any longer, d’Artagnan laboriously shifted his body, always most uncooperative first thing in the morning, to a position where he could check on his roommate. 

He found an empty bed. 

And not just an empty bed, but one that looked as if it had been left only moments before. The bedclothes were drawn back and rumpled, but most importantly, no attempt had been made to straighten them out, which was something Athos was in the habit of doing when they stayed at an inn. With a quick glance around the room, he realized Athos was not present, and he felt oddly bereft as a result. He thought it a little too early for Athos to be out and about, but supposed the man might have had trouble sleeping and had already made himself ready for the day. However, an increasing sense of paranoia had him reaching for and lighting the candle on the bedside table. 

It took his eyes a moment to get used to the light after the candle ignited. When his eyes had adjusted, d’Artagnan shone the light towards Athos’s bed. What he found – or rather didn’t find – started him towards panic. 

Athos’s book was gone. The book missing from the table wouldn’t normally mean anything, as the older man could’ve put it away. It was the fact that there seemed to be nothing in the room which indicated Athos had ever occupied it other than the rumbled bed. No clothes, no weapons, no saddlebags. Carefully, he sat up and extended the candle as far as he could so that its light could reach the farthest corners of the room. Not a single item which belonged to Athos was revealed. 

Athos was gone. 

He’d been left behind. 

Athos had left him alone without one word of warning. Had left him behind and forgotten him. Abandoned him yet again. 

He had truly thought Athos had changed, had wanted to fix things between them, but he had been wrong. So very, very wrong. 

His descent towards true and all-encompassing panic was swift. His hands were shaking so badly, he had to quickly put the candle back on the table for fear of dropping it. As it was, it was a near thing it didn’t end up on the floor. The semi-irrational thought that a fire could have started, and he would’ve been trapped in bed, filled his heart with fear. 

His heart was beating so quickly he thought it would burst through his chest to escape. It had started to become difficult to breathe. 

He was trapped in bed! How was he supposed to ever leave this room, ever walk again, without help? He would lose everything. 

No. 

He had already lost everything. 

Athos leaving in the dead of night without word was a clear sign he was no longer wanted by anyone. Not Aramis and Porthos, who had already left him behind. Not Captain Treville, who hadn’t wanted his presence back at the garrison. 

Alone again. 

Please, God, not again! 

The candle flame sputtered, indicating it would soon go out, but he’d barely noticed it in his panicked rush to not remain alone. Somehow he managed to sit on the side of his bed, but hesitated in trying to rise from it. Yet, he had to try, or be stuck in bed forever, withering away into a pile of bones inside a useless sack of skin. 

The light flickered once again, and he looked back to see that the candle was about to go out. Having completely forgotten he only needed to wait for the sun to rise so that there would be more than enough light, d’Artagnan made an attempt to rise from his bed. 

D’Artagnan barely made it to standing, he was shaking so badly. As he tried to take a step, the candle went out, leaving him falling into darkness. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty: After Much Deliberation 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that cliffhanger. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my aching brain’s fault.


	52. Chapter Fifty: After Much Deliberation, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  Apologies for ending on a cliffhanger in the previous chapter...  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty:  After Much Deliberation, Part One**

With a gasp, d’Artagnan’s eyes flew open and his body wrenched itself back from the edge of the bed he was laying on, triggering several twinges of pain from his healing wounds. 

He was lying on his bed? But…that didn’t make sense. 

Hadn’t he just been trying to walk? Hadn’t Athos left him behind without any word? 

A dream. 

It must have been a dream. A nightmare his overwhelmed mind had conjured up to torture him. 

Shifting to lay fully on his back, d’Artagnan struggled to calm his breathing and his heartbeat, which sounded louder than a beating drum to his ears. He pressed his fingers into his eyes, before scrubbing his face with his hands, thinking about the nightmare he’d just had. 

It seemed his recovering body had won the three-way tug of war after all, though his mind had certainly not completely ceded victory, and had attempted to win the overall battle while he had been asleep. Not just an attempt, but a clear triumph if his nightmare was any indication. 

Images from that nightmare suddenly flashed through his mind. In the total blackness of the room, he realized it was not the same time of night or early morning as it had been in his nightmare. Afraid to be wrong, he hadn’t checked yet, but he was certain Athos was still in the room. It didn’t feel empty, and Athos wouldn’t forsake him like that, would he? 

Of a sudden, d’Artagnan could feel paranoia that Athos had indeed left him alone to fend for himself asserting itself. But in the next moment, he heard a faint whistling noise, which instantly wiped out that increasing paranoia. 

He would know that sound anywhere. Only one person he knew of made that exact noise – Athos. 

The whistling noise was coming from Athos’s nose. At times, the older man would have difficulties breathing from his nose, it becoming clogged up enough during the nighttime hours that very little air made it through. A whistling noise would result on many of those nights. 

Aramis and Porthos took great delight in teasing the older man when this occurred, saying Athos did not know how to properly snore, asking if Athos was hiding his pet bird somewhere, or some other such nonsense. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but find the noise endearing, though on pain of death he would never admit to such a thought; it was reminiscent of a sound his father’s nose had made when the air was full of dust during harvest times. 

Hearing that whistle in that moment meant the world to him and was a great relief. Athos had not abandoned or forgotten him again. 

On the heels of that sweet relief was a sense of shame. How could he think Athos would do such a thing? The man would never leave a fellow Musketeer behind when they were injured, regardless of any personal feelings for or against. 

D’Artagnan had to wonder just how severely their relationship as brothers-in-arms and friends had been damaged to have his subconscious consider the possibility that Athos would forsake him in such a manner as his nightmare had outlined. Perhaps it had been something in the information Athos had imparted which had triggered the nightmare. Perhaps it had been his own insecurities and doubts which chose to surface. It also could have been a combination of, or something in between, those two possibilities. Or, it could’ve been something else entirely. There was no way to be certain why his mind had chosen that nightmarish scenario. 

Given the whistling noise and sleep-heavy, regular breathing he was hearing, it was obvious Athos was still asleep. He had thought neither of them, with so much on their minds, would have been able to get to sleep. Apparently, he had been wrong. He was surprised his gasp, which had sounded so loud in the quiet room, hadn’t awakened Athos. It seemed they both had really needed the rest.  

His dream almost had him reconsidering the decision he had made regarding whether or not to forgive Athos. Could he follow through with his choice? And if he did follow through, then how would he go about it? 

There had been more than enough hurt on both sides, and he did not want to add to it. Neither of them deserved that consequence of his decision, but he knew it might not be entirely avoided. 

D’Artagnan began to work as best he could through the exercises that Aramis had prescribed for his legs as he contemplated how he was going to respond to Athos’s explanation and apology. 

ooooooo 

D’Artagnan had no way of knowing how long he had been awake before Athos stirred. All he did know was that it was long enough for the sky to get lighter, indicating the sun would soon be above the horizon. 

He knew the basics of what he wanted to say to Athos, but not the exact words. He’d made sure to not rehearse anything, wanting to sound genuine as he said his piece. Given his chosen response, he hoped Athos would not interrupt as he knew what he was about to say would be difficult for the older man to hear. 

Athos, when he had the time and was not too hungover, usually sat up in bed for a little while, which helped alleviate his congestion and ceased the whistling sound his nose made. In the dim light of the room, d’Artagnan could see when Athos rubbed his eyes and scrubbed his hands down his face. The incidental mirroring of his own recent actions elicited a slight smile from him. 

Suddenly, Athos’s hands had stilled in the middle of scratching of his beard. After a long pause, the hands had slowly descended to come to a rest in the older man’s lap. D’Artagnan then watched as Athos’s head turned his way. 

It was still a little too dark to see any facial expressions, but the older man’s body stiffened, indicating he knew he was being watched. 

“Morning,” Athos said. The word might have been uttered to a wall for all the emotion it lacked. 

“Good morning,” he replied, trying to not let the lack of emotion get to him. He knew it was his fault the older man was being so curt with him. “Athos, I—” 

Instead of listening to anything he might have said, Athos ignored him and got up from the bed, heading towards the door. 

In d’Artagnan’s mind, it suddenly appeared as if his nightmare was about to come true. Athos was going to desert him and leave him alone to fend for himself. All rational thought fled his mind as he blurted, “Please don’t abandon me!” 

His outburst caused Athos to trip over his own feet slightly as he reached for the door handle, resulting in him missing grabbing hold of it. 

Athos shifted to face him, his expression morphing in a flash from impassive to shock and confusion laced with a hint of sadness. 

“D’Artagnan, peace. I promise I am not abandoning you,” he said, and gestured to his state of dress. “I was just getting the bucket of water our innkeeper leaves outside our door each morning.” 

As the older man matched explanation to action, d’Artagnan’s cheeks heated up in extreme embarrassment when he realized just how badly he had overreacted. Groaning in frustration for revealing so much, he dropped his head into his hands, allowing his hair to fall forward and completely hide his face. How was he ever going to live this down? 

He heard the door close and water slosh in the bucket Athos must have retrieved, signaling to the last remnant of his nightmare-induced paranoia that the man had told the truth and not deserted him. 

Not wanting to face Athos, he kept his head bowed and eyes closed in shame and embarrassment. A hand briefly touching his foot startled him enough to open his eyes, but he refused to raise his head. 

“D’Artagnan…do you really think so…poorly of me that—” 

The utter desolation in the older man’s voice did what nothing else could’ve in that moment. 

His head jerked up and his eyes met Athos’s. “Athos, no! No! I…” 

He struggled with how to explain his reaction and decided to share the details of his nightmare, hoping the older man would understand his reaction. D’Artagnan thought it only fair that he reciprocate after Athos had shared so much private information the night before. 

D’Artagnan was well aware they needed to be open and truthful with each other if they were ever going to get through to the other side of their discord. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty:  After Much Deliberation, Part Two **  
**

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing. Remaining mistakes are my fault, or are they? ;o)


	53. Chapter Fifty: After Much Deliberation, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s Celticgal104’s birthday this week; please take time to wish her a Happy Birthday!   
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty:  After Much Deliberation, Part Two**

When he had finished relating his nightmare, Athos had nodded and picked up the bucket he had lowered to the ground before walking over to put it on the table. Athos then sighed and said, “I am sorry you had to endure that.” 

“No, Athos; I am sorry,” d’Artagnan said as he shifted his body to sit on the edge of the bed facing the table. 

Noticing Athos’s raised, inquiring eyebrow, he continued, “I am sorry for abruptly ending our conversation last night. I…I was so…so overwhelmed by all that you had said, that I just couldn’t…think. I needed…time to consider all you had said and decide how to respond. 

“I should have handled it better. Should have given you some sort of an explanation, and not made you think I didn’t realize how hard it was for you to share parts of your life before the Musketeers with me. That I had spurned your explanation or your apology. 

“I apologize for offending and hurting you. It was not my intention, but my mind and heart were so full that I—” 

“D’Artagnan, stop. I understand. I do.” Athos paused to splash some water from the bucket onto his face, allowing the excess droplets to freely fall onto the floor for a moment before grabbing a towel and drying his face. “I am grateful for your apology. While I wish you had said something last night, so I hadn’t believed I’d lost my friend forever, I did not mean to overload or overburden you. I just…” 

The older man sighed and looked out the window for a moment. “You said you needed time. Do you still need more?” 

“Just a little more…” He paused and gestured towards the bucket. “To perform my morning ablutions. Perhaps after we break our fast you’ll allow me the chance to share my thoughts and conclusions with you.” 

Athos opened his mouth to speak, but d’Artagnan held up a hand. “I don’t mean to drag this out or cruelly leave you in suspense, but—” 

“You don’t want any interruptions”—One corner of Athos’s mouth twitched as if in a smile as his eyes flickered towards the chamber pot—“And I imagine some things are more pressing at the moment.” 

D’Artagnan nodded, his own mouth twitching slightly in response. 

ooooooo 

Following an incredibly awkward meal, during which neither of them spoke, d’Artagnan resituated himself to sit in a more comfortable position. Athos grabbed one of the table’s chairs and brought it over to his bed. 

Suddenly, he wished he could have the darkness he had afforded Athos, but he knew that wasn’t possible. A tragic past could be revealed in such a way, but what he wanted to say required light. 

Finally, when he could delay no longer, d’Artagnan took a deep breath, and slowly released it. 

Steeling his courage and his resolve, d’Artagnan began to speak: 

“What I am about to say will probably be difficult for you to hear, but I beg you to give me a chance to finish and not interrupt.” 

Trying and failing to hide his apprehension, Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Alright.” 

“First of all, I would like to say that I realize how difficult it must have been to share your past with me. It means a lot to me that you would do so in order to explain your actions while you had amnesia. The losses you’ve endured… I can’t claim to know how you must have felt, but I can at least sympathize with you. You know my father was…murdered, and my mother died without granting my wish for a sibling. 

“I’m sorry about Thomas, and that I happened to remind you of him when you were hurting and confused. I never thought I would understand what it would be like to lose a sibling, but since—” 

D’Artagnan cut himself off before he could get too off-track. He decided it wasn’t wise to cloud the issue at hand by revealing he had at one time started to consider the older man family. Athos’s stoic expression had flickered briefly, making him wonder if the older man had guessed what he’d been about to say. He shook his head to dispel the thought and resumed speaking. 

“I believe that you were speaking from the heart about how sorry and full of regret you are for the wrongs you committed against me. I have no doubt you are genuinely repentant; your words and actions lately have shown me as much. 

“Before she passed away, my mother taught me: _If there is true repentance, then forgiveness is a must_. Knowing you are truly repentant, how can I withhold my forgiveness? 

“To be honest with you, I’ve had a difficult time with forgiveness since you started—since you began making all those wrong choices. Each time you ignored me, each time you called me ‘Boy’… I tried so hard to not let it all get to me, but that ended up being impossible. 

“You say you made wrong choices, but so did I. I could’ve chosen to forgive each of your transgressions against me long before now. I could’ve chosen to not isolate myself from Aramis and Porthos. I could’ve chosen to stick it out, and live up to the famous Gascon stubbornness by relentlessly pursuing a new friendship with you. But I did none of those things. 

“Instead, I gave up – another wrong choice. I think withholding my forgiveness, or in fact, not even allowing the possibility to enter my mind – for you or myself – played a part in my ongoing insomnia, my increasing lack of confidence in my skills, and more. I no longer want what happened between us when you had amnesia or the discord since your regained your memories weighing down on my shoulders. Especially not now with my legs the way they are. If I wasn’t so preoccupied with those things, then I could be free to concentrate on walking again.” 

He slowly exhaled and locked eyes with Athos.  

“With everything I just said in mind, I have made the decision to… forgive you.” 

D’Artagnan noticed Athos’s stoic expression crumble into one of relief before morphing into one of pure joy. 

Before Athos could say anything though, he held up his hand. 

“However, my forgiving you does not necessarily mean we are reconciled. It can’t be as if nothing ever happened. Things cannot go back to exactly the way they were before – at least not yet”—He shrugged—“or perhaps ever. My forgiveness does _not_ mean I am excusing what you did, but that I am no longer going to hold it all against you. However, I think it will be a while before I can forget, let go of what happened. 

“I hope you will be patient with me, and have faith that someday we can have some semblance of the friendship we used to have. But I completely understand if you no longer want to remain friends. I am hoping we can take things one day at a time and see where it leads us.” 

When d’Artagnan had started to state the current limitations to his forgiveness of Athos, the older man’s expression quickly fell to one of disappointment before a wall of impassiveness was quickly erected. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but think that Athos might not accept that forgiveness for him was not the end of the matter, but rather the beginning. Perhaps they could build upon the foundations of their friendship before the amnesia in order to create a new, stronger one for the future, but it all depended on Athos.  

Athos bowed his head for a moment before suddenly springing up from his chair. The older man walked over to the table at the other end of the room, put his hands on the top and fully leaned on them, allowing his head to drop lower than his shoulders. 

D’Artagnan didn’t know what to think of the sudden movement, but recognized that Athos likely needed some time to digest everything he had just heard. He longed to say something, but kept silent, allowing Athos some peace to think. 

Athos’s back was to him, but he could see how tense the man was. The older man took a step back and lowered his head even farther before releasing a shuddering breath. Then, after a few moments, as he stood up straight with his left hand still lightly touching the table, Athos wiped his right hand down his face, going back to wipe at one eye. 

If he didn’t know any better, then he would think Athos might have been crying. In all the months he had known the man, d’Artagnan had never witnessed so much as a sign of an eye starting to tear up, though he’d seen both Porthos’s and Aramis’s do so. 

Before he could dwell any longer upon what he’d just seen, Athos turned towards him. 

“D’Artagnan,” Athos said as he began to slowly walk back towards the bed, “since my memories came back, and I fully realized just what I had done to you, made you feel, I’ve believed I didn’t deserve any forgiveness from you. I believed I no longer deserved any form of friendship. 

“For you to extend your forgiveness to me…” 

Athos finished crossing the room and dropped to one knee beside his bed. 

Then, the older man held out his right hand. In a voice thick with emotion, Athos said, “Thank you.” 

D’Artagnan looked at the hand and then at Athos’s face, which was full of too many emotions to identify in the moment. 

He grasped Athos’s forearm in a tight grip, nodded once, and said, “You and I, we still have a ways to go… One day at a time?” 

“One day at a time,” the older man confirmed with a nod of his own. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty-one: The Declaration 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  Happy Birthday, Celticgal! 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are the fault of a sleep-deprived brain.


	54. Chapter Fifty-one: The Declaration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We return to Athos’s point of view in this chapter.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-one: The Declaration**

When Athos opened his eyes, it felt as if his body was not too keen on being fully awake. However, when he heard a ridiculous whistling sound coming from his nose as he exhaled, it was more than enough reason for him to at least sit up in bed in hopes the congestion causing it would soon go away. 

It didn’t take long for his breathing to ease once he sat up and leaned back against the wall. Still not feeling fully awake, he rubbed his eyes and then scrubbed his hands down his face. 

By the time he moved to scratch his beard, he could feel that he was being watched. His hands stilled and he lowered them to rest in his lap. There was only one person who could be watching him, and he was surprised he hadn’t noticed d’Artagnan was awake prior to this moment. He decided to take it in stride and attribute the lack of awareness to the fact he had not gotten much sleep the night before. 

In a flash, memories from the night before flooded his mind. He had bared his soul, told d’Artagnan the most private parts of his history, and yet the younger man had treated it as if it were nothing. 

Rationally, he knew it was a possibility d’Artagnan had been overloaded by the information he’d imparted, and had simply not known how to respond, but the Gascon could have said as much. Instead, the awkward, curt ending to the conversation had left him angry at first. 

From an emotional standpoint, the brush off had him nearly convinced reconciliation would be impossible, that he had destroyed one of the most important friendships of his life. A part of him couldn’t help but want to grieve the loss of his friend and fellow brother-in-arms. 

Rational or emotional?  He could choose both, but for the moment, he wouldn’t make any choice; having had too little sleep made it difficult to make a decision. Besides, he was having enough difficulty keeping memories of his old life locked away in the back of his mind, not wanting to dwell on them again so soon. 

Slowly, he turned his head in d’Artagnan’s direction. 

“Morning,” he said, keeping up pleasantries despite not being able to feel anything at all at the moment. 

D’Artagnan replied in kind, and attempted to speak to him, but Athos didn’t think he would be able to say anything at the moment that wasn’t hurtful. Instead, he shot up from the bed and headed towards the door, intending on getting the bucket of water Monsieur Gérard usually left out in the hall every morning. Perhaps he could wash away the disappointment he was feeling. 

Just as he was about to reach the door and grasp its handle, d’Artagnan suddenly said, “Please don’t abandon me!” 

It was the strong emotion of fear that reached him before the entire sentence had even registered in his mind. His body sent out mixed signals as a result, which caused him to basically trip over his own feet and he missed grabbing the door handle. 

His heart started pounding at those words. Why would d’Artagnan say such a thing when the younger man could plainly see he didn’t even have his boots on? Then, it hit him, and he felt a great sadness overtake him. 

“D’Artagnan, peace. I promise I am not abandoning you,” he said, gesturing to his state of dress. “I was just getting the bucket of water our innkeeper leaves outside our door each morning.” 

Immediately, the younger man retreated behind a curtain of hair, and Athos could only presume d’Artagnan was embarrassed for accidentally blurting out his worst fear. To give him time to recover his wits, Athos matched action to his previous words and brought the bucket that was sitting the right of the door into the room. 

A thought occurred to him, which grieved him down to his very soul. It prompted him to ask, “D’Artagnan…do you really think so…poorly of me that—” 

D’Artagnan’s head jerked up and they locked eyes. 

“Athos, no! No! I…” 

The younger man’s immediate denial warmed his heart, but he noticed that d’Artagnan was struggling with what to say next. When he’d noticed the decisive look on d’Artagnan’s face, Athos had not dared to move, other than to slowly set the bucket down by his feet, as the younger man revealed the horrible nightmare he’d had just prior to waking. 

After d’Artagnan had finished, Athos had nodded and picked up the bucket before walking over to put it on the table. Now he understood why abandonment had been mentioned, but recognized there were deeper fears and issues at work in that nightmare, ones he hoped they would be able to work on together. 

He had dreamed as well, but nothing as disturbing as what d’Artagnan had had to endure. In fact, he’d had a pleasant dream of one of the adventures he and Thomas had in the attic of their house as they sought treasures from a bygone age. He was surprised to have had such a dream after relating all the turmoil of his days before the Musketeers, but had welcomed the remembrance of a happier time. 

He sighed and said, “I am sorry you had to endure that.” 

Immediately, d’Artagnan had started apologizing to him, something he had not expected but greatly appreciated. It seemed his rational mind had been correct about why d’Artagnan had so brusquely cut off their conversation. 

With this in mind, he’d interrupted the younger man, and told d’Artagnan he understood the reasoning even if it had been an emotional blow at the time. He then asked if d’Artagnan needed more time to consider the history he had related the night before. Only a little more time was needed, so that they could take care of their morning ablutions and to break their fast. 

It wasn’t long before he was pulling a chair over to sit beside d’Artagnan’s bed, anticipating and dreading what the younger man had to say in equal measure. 

D’Artagnan’s opening statement had made what nerves he was feeling ratchet to the next level. He agreed to hold his tongue while the younger man spoke his piece, knowing he had likely failed miserably in trying to hide his trepidation over what he was about to hear. 

Athos listened with rapt attention to d’Artagnan’s words. His mind barely had time to process each new subject as they were elaborated upon. It was his turn to feel overwhelmed by what he was hearing. 

Random thoughts and feelings flitted through his brain as d’Artagnan spoke: 

_Yearning for them to be like family again someday.  
_

_Relief that d’Artagnan believed he was truly repentant.  
_

_Hope beginning to build at the words of wisdom from d’Artagnan’s mother.  
_

_Renewed regret and shame for everything he had done to the younger man.  
_

_Wrong choices… Perhaps, but in a certain light, they were understandable.  
_

_Did he just say—?  
_

_Forgiven?!_

Forgiven! 

Athos almost couldn’t believe how fortunate he was at the moment. Relief was an understatement. Happiness was a given. Joy was bubbling up within him and coming to the surface. 

He was just about to thank d’Artagnan for the declaration of forgiveness when the younger man held up his hand.  Relief, happiness, and joy were washed away by the renewed dread that rapidly flooded into his heart and mind. 

As d’Artagnan explained that forgiveness did not mean reconciliation, he couldn’t help but be disappointed. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy; it never was for him. He immediately clamped down on his feelings, refusing to let them show, but inside his own head, he was reeling from what he was hearing. 

When d’Artagnan had finished speaking, he was momentarily dumbfounded, and bowed his head in an attempt to gather his thoughts. 

Suddenly, he could no longer stand to sit in the chair. He had to move. He had to think about what he’d heard. 

He found himself at the table on the other end of the room without having any recollection of having moved there. Putting his hands on the table, he leaned on them and allowed his head to drop between his shoulders. 

The idea that they might never completely reconcile was a dagger to his heart and soul. He understood the reasoning; he had deeply, truly, and possibly irrevocably hurt the younger man. It made sense that things could not go back to the way they were, and hoped that it did not include the two of them working together as Musketeers. 

He knew how hard it was to let go of disappointment, to let go of hurt and suffering. He well understood how difficult it was to regain your footing after dealing with such devastating blows to one’s psyche. It had been more than five years since his brother had been murdered, yet the pain sometimes felt as fresh as if it had only happened the day before. 

Athos understood, but that did not mean it did not make it difficult to accept. 

But he would learn to accept the stipulations d’Artagnan was presenting to him. How could he not? 

He had been forgiven; something he had thought impossible. He could be patient. He _would_ be patient with d’Artagnan as the younger man continued to work through the damage caused by his actions. How many times had d’Artagnan been patient with him when he had been having a difficult time dealing with his past? 

Faith was more difficult; it was more Aramis’s area of expertise than his. To be considered d’Artagnan’s friend again someday, he would try to keep faith.  More than that, he wanted – _hoped_ – d’Artagnan would once more consider him family at some point in the future. 

Mercy was not something he ever felt he deserved, but d’Artagnan had freely given it to him in the form of forgiveness. 

He felt his eyes begin to tear up. Forgiven… He had been forgiven. 

Taking a step back, he let his head hang farther down as he sought to keep himself from bawling like a little child at the gift he had been given. 

He is forgiven. 

He took a deep breath as he tried to rein in his emotions and exhaled a shuddering breath, feeling his eyes continue to fill with tears. When they filled passed the point his closed eyelids could contain them, he opened his eyes and let his tears spill down his face unhindered. Briefly, he wondered when he’d last allowed himself to shed tears. 

Realizing he was keeping d’Artagnan waiting, he stood straight and forcefully reined back his emotions, wiping his hand down his face to erase the evidence of his emotional outburst. Missing some of the wetness, he swiped once more at his right eye. 

When he felt he had a handle on things, he turned to face d’Artagnan. 

As he began to slowly walk back towards the younger man’s bed, Athos said, “D’Artagnan, since my memories came back, and I fully realized just what I had done to you, made you feel, I’ve believed I didn’t deserve any forgiveness from you. I believed I no longer deserved any form of friendship. 

“For you to extend your forgiveness to me…” 

Athos finished crossing the room in a rush and dropped to one knee beside d’Artagnan’s bed. 

He held out his right hand to d’Artagnan, and could hear the emotion in his voice as he said, “Thank you.” 

D’Artagnan did not take his hand at first. Instead, the younger man looked at it for a moment before meeting his gaze. He knew his usual impassive façade had been wiped away when he had wiped away his tears. At this point, he would not be surprised if his face was an open book, and he hoped d’Artagnan could read just how much he wanted them to fully reconcile. 

Athos was fairly certain d’Artagnan had seen that desire when the younger man nodded once, grasped his forearm, and said, “You and I, we still have a ways to go… One day at a time?” 

He badly wanted to pull d’Artagnan closer and hug the younger man, but understood it was not the right time for that. 

“One day at a time,” he confirmed with a nod of his own. 

Athos was under no illusion that reconciliation would be an easy process, but now he had hope – and faith – that it would happen. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued next year…_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty-two: Trust 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who celebrate: *Merry Christmas* and *Happy New Year!* Thank you for the gift of your time by continuing to read and review this story!
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing. I’m blaming any remaining mistakes on evil elves.


	55. Chapter Fifty-two: Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-two:  Trust**

D’Artagnan broke contact first, looking slightly uncomfortable, which in turn made him begin to feel uncomfortable. At first, Athos thought it due to the fact that he wasn’t the most physically demonstrative man, and that d’Artagnan simply wasn’t used to such a gesture from him. However, it then occurred to him that the younger man might be uncomfortable with that type of gesture when they were only at the beginning of what he hoped would be a full reconciliation. In that case, it was understandable for the Gascon to be reticent in keeping contact.   

To lessen the awkwardness that now enshrouded them, Athos quickly stood. He wondered what they should do next; looking around he caught sight of his sword and the cane where they had been propped up against the wall, and realized there was an obvious answer. 

“Shall we attempt to adhere more closely to Aramis’s instructions today?” 

“You’re still willing to help me?” d’Artagnan said, looking surprised but also ashamed for even asking the question. 

Athos thought his heart had stopped beating for a moment as he processed d’Artagnan’s question. He understood where it was coming from and instantly forgave the hurt it had caused. Apparently, they both needed to be forgiving towards each other. 

“I know you don’t trust me with this”—He pointed towards his head—“or this”—He then laid his palm over his heart—“but I hope you will trust me with your legs. I will do everything in my power to help you regain the ability to walk again. Please know that I’m not doing it out of obligation, though I would help any injured Musketeer with their recovery. I’m doing this because you are my friend. I know it may not seem like we can claim that designation at the moment, but it is still true. Alright?” 

D’Artagnan nodded, a slight smile gracing his face. “Alright. And yes, I do trust you with helping me to walk again. Thank you.” 

“No thanks are needed, but you are welcome all the same,” Athos said, noting that d’Artagnan hadn’t disagreed with his assessment of the level of trust between them regarding head and heart. He hoped they would be able to reach that level of trust again someday. 

“In that light, I have something I hope will help.” 

Athos retrieved the cane and presented it to d’Artagnan, who took it after a lengthy moment of indecision. 

“After your fall, I had the idea to have this cane made. The cafender* was able to finish this one in short order.” 

“Athos… I…” D’Artagnan ran his hand along the smooth surface of the wood before looking back up. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to pay y—.” 

“D’Artagnan it’s not necessary to repay me,” he said. Knowing that he had to tread carefully to get the younger man to accept the cane, and not consider it charity, Athos chose his next words carefully. “Actually, it’s not really for you at all; it’s for both of us. I hope it will help _me_ to keep _you_ on your feet, provide balance. I could do without another fall.” 

“Me as well,” the younger man said, looking for a moment as if he would argue. Then, d’Artagnan smiled slightly. “Good idea. I owe you one.” 

“Remember, you don’t owe me anything. But, if you insist, you can repay me by not trying to skip so many steps in your recovery in the future,” Athos said, referencing the botched attempt to walk which had led to a fall. “Deal?” 

Briefly, d’Artagnan’s expression was mutinous, but it smoothed out almost immediately. “Deal.” 

“Good,” Athos said, feeling pleased that he had managed to get d’Artagnan to accept such a gift. “I’m going to go downstairs and ask Gérard for two buckets of hot water. Will you be alright for a few minutes?” 

Observing d’Artagnan’s expression instantaneously dissolve into one of apprehension, Athos very deliberately did not strap his sword around his waist. Remembering the nightmare the younger man had divulged, he armed himself with only his main gauche, not feeling comfortable enough to go anywhere without at least one weapon as was his habit. The lack of his sword’s weight around his waist was quite odd, but he deemed the inconvenience worthwhile when the Gascon’s trepidation eased up a fraction.   

Hoping to remove even more of the remaining remnants of the expression, Athos grabbed his book from the table and held it out to d’Artagnan, who hesitated to take it. The younger man practically looked as if the book was a bomb about to explode. Athos couldn’t decide which expression was worse:  the look of apprehension or reluctance. 

“Have you read this volume* yet?” Athos asked, indicating the book in his hand and trying once again to hand it to d’Artagnan. The younger man took it that time merely out of reflex, barely holding on to it as if it might be snatched back from him at any moment. 

Athos knew it had been some time since d’Artagnan had borrowed any books from him, largely due to his amnesia. Given how he had once treated the younger man, d’Artagnan had probably concluded that he would never again be allowed to borrow anything from Athos. 

He suddenly remembered looking for a book during the time his memory had not been intact and discovering it to be missing, only to find it had mysteriously reappeared under his bed – a place he’d checked more than once – only a couple of days later. Athos realized that d’Artagnan must have found out about the ‘missing’, but in reality, borrowed book and had returned it on the sly. 

He chose to ignore the hesitation and uncertainty, and said, “I’m not sure if this book will be to your taste, but it does give much insight into the man who wrote it and includes words of wisdom which still apply today.”—He walked to the door and opened it—“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

As he was shutting the door, Athos looked back into the room. D’Artagnan was holding the volume as if it were a priceless object. When the door was almost shut, he smiled when he took a last look and saw that the younger man had opened the book and appeared to be reading it. He hoped that, while he was gone, the Gascon would remain sufficiently distracted from his worry over being abandoned once again. 

Athos fully intended on returning as quickly as possible, to prove he would keep his word and help rebuild trust between them. From then on, he would inform d’Artagnan every time he had to leave the Gascon alone. 

No one should ever feel they have been abandoned. He had failed in that regard more than once recently; he would never allow that to happen again. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued…_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty-three: One Day at a Time I - Exhausted 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**“ _Have you read this volume yet?_ ”:** The volume in question is the book known as _Meditations_ , by Marcus Aurelius. It was first mentioned in _Chapter Forty-seven: Disembodied Voices, Part One_. See the notes for that chapter for some more information. 

**_Cafender_ :** An archaic word for ‘carpenter’. See the notes for _Chapter  Forty-five: Calm Before the Storm_ for more information. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	56. Chapter Fifty-three: One Day at a Time I - Exhausted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Please Note* The next chapters are going to be a series of scenes covering d’Artagnan’s recovery. I realize the guys still have many issues to discuss, but I might not get to all of them in these scenes. *Warning*: the chapters for this part of the story will not necessarily be in chronological order. 
> 
> A return to d’Artagnan’s point of view…  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-three:  One Day at a Time I – Exhausted**

By the end of each day, d’Artagnan was usually so exhausted he barely made it through the evening meal and fell asleep after only a few paragraphs of Athos’s book. At this rate, it would take him the rest of his life to finish reading that book. 

During dinner that evening, he had mentioned his frustration with his newfound sleeping habits to Athos. 

“I hate being so tired every evening!” he said, roughly tearing apart a piece of bread and dropping the pieces into his stew. “I don’t feel like I’ve done enough each day to warrant it. In the past, there had been many nights where I had problems getting to sleep, but not lately. Yes, it’s a novelty to not have to deal with my insomnia, but I’m tired of being tired.” 

As he had continued to speak, d’Artagnan had noticed a subtle shift in Athos’s demeanor and a near wince when he had mentioned his insomnia. Then it dawned on him. Perhaps Athos was dealing with a bout of insomnia or was having trouble getting to sleep each night. 

He had noticed Athos looking more exhausted lately, but had attributed it to the older man having so much more to deal with than normal while away on a mission. D’Artagnan felt guilty because knew he wasn’t the most cooperative or pleasant patient with a minor injury; he could only imagine how much more difficult a patient he was with this injury. Plus, on top of helping him with his recovery and without the support of Aramis and Porthos, Athos had to take care of more than his fair share of their usual chores. 

“I’m sure it is merely a side effect of the recovery process. You are expending a lot of effort each day working to regain your strength and your ability to walk properly,” Athos said before taking a sip of his nightly cup of wine. “I’m sure Aramis, if he were here, would tell you that sleep helps the healing process. I would think your tiredness will begin to go away as you continue to improve.” 

D’Artagnan nodded in agreement with Athos’s explanation, and then shrugged. “What do you think Porthos would’ve said?” 

Athos looked up from his own bowl of stew and met his eyes. He smirked and said, “Porthos would have mocked you endlessly about being a toddler needing a nap even as he encouraged you to keep on with whatever treatment or exercise Aramis had come up with that day.” 

D’Artagnan smiled and said, “I can see that happening…and more.” 

“So can I.” 

“Athos, are you getting any sleep? I’ve noticed how tired you’ve been looking.” 

“Mocking my age, are you?” Athos asked, his smile not reaching his eyes. 

“Athos…” D’Artagnan was not interested in weak deflections; he wanted the truth. How were they supposed to fully trust each other again if they couldn’t tell each other the truth about something personal? 

The older man sighed before rolling his shoulders in a move that d’Artagnan recognized was to help release the tension in them. 

“Not really.” Athos sighed and dragged a hand down over his mouth. “I have so many thoughts rushing about in my mind that it is difficult to quiet them enough to be able to sleep.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said, knowing what that was like and feeling he was to blame for being one of the major causes of Athos losing sleep. 

Athos must have seen the guilt on his face. “It’s not your fault. Not directly anyway. I worry…about your recovery, but you are not to blame for that.” 

D’Artagnan could sense there was more to the sleeplessness. “And that is all you worry about?” 

Bowing his head for a moment, Athos shook his head in the negative before meeting his gaze. “No. I also think about…”—the older man took a drink of wine—“about your forgiveness, our reconciliation, my wretched behavior of the past. I wonder if… ” 

“If what?” d’Artagnan asked after a moment of silence. 

“If I’m doing enough to help us get back to some semblance of the friendship we once had.” 

Athos’s words cut him to the quick. They still had a ways to go in their reconciliation, but did the older man not see that things were slowly improving between them day by day? 

D’Artagnan reached out and laid a hand on Athos’s forearm. “We’re getting there one day at a time. You know that right? Please remember that I consider you a friend and brother-at-arms even after all we’ve been through. Don’t let yourself lose sleep over that anymore, alright?” 

For a moment it seemed to d’Artagnan that the older man had not heard what he’d said, but then Athos’s face softened and a small smiled appeared. 

“I’ll try,” Athos said. 

He was nodding his approval when the older man added, “And d’Artagnan?” 

“Yes?” 

“It’s good to hear you call me friend again.” **  
**

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty-four: One Day at a Time II – Surprise 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a great time visiting with my family, but unfortunately the day after they left, I came down with what I not-so-affectionately call The Plague, which is why this chapter was a bit shorter compared to most of the others. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are the fault of my lingering plague.


	57. Chapter Fifty-four: One Day at a Time II - Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Just a reminder** The “One Day at a Time” chapters will be a series of scenes covering d’Artagnan’s recovery, but not every aspect or minute of it, nor will they necessarily be in chronological order.
> 
> Back to Athos’s PoV…

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-four:   One Day at a Time II – Surprise**

Despite d’Artagnan’s progress in regaining the use of his legs, Athos observed the younger man seemed to be fairly disheartened at times. 

It was not long before he noticed that the depressed frame of mind set in whenever he would leave to go downstairs, and especially when he would go to see to the horses. A look of longing would overtake d’Artagnan’s expression, though the younger man made a valiant effort to hide it from him. 

Every day brought improvement in the Gascon’s condition, but he wasn’t yet capable of walking steadily or for long distances. The thought of d’Artagnan using the stairs at this point made him feel more than a little nervous, even if they were to have the innkeeper’s help. 

From the very beginning of their acquaintance, Athos had noted d’Artagnan had a knack for horses. When complimented on his horsemanship, d’Artagnan would always reply that it was because of where he grew up. However, Athos didn’t think the skill he’d witnessed was solely attributed to having grown up on a farm. The younger man just seemed to have a natural affinity for the animals, whether they were familiar to him or not. He’d always admired that ability, and on more than one occasion had found it useful when on a mission. 

Then it finally happened. 

Except for the incidents that occurred the day they discovered Aramis and Porthos had basically absconded back to Paris, Athos had been pretty impressed with how relatively calm and in control d’Artagnan had been. However, he had known it would not last, given the nature of d’Artagnan’s temperament and their recent talks. No matter how much the younger man matured over time, Athos suspected there would always be a temper and an element of recklessness to contend with in d’Artagnan’s personality. 

The two of them were carefully making their way up and down the hallway, the younger man pushing his limits as always. When they turned away from the stairs, d’Artagnan tried but failed to conceal a noise of frustration, but Athos heard it anyway. He could understand the frustration, the unrelenting desire to be back to normal, but he didn’t— 

Athos was pulled out of his thoughts when d’Artagnan stumbled slightly. He kept the younger man from falling, seeing that the cane had temporarily gotten stuck in a knot in the wood flooring, causing the stumble. Athos cursed his brief inattention, and was just about to apologize to the younger man, when the Gascon suddenly cursed and tossed the cane away. It was flung with enough force that he was surprised it had remained intact as it hit the floor with a loud clatter. 

When d’Artagnan began to murmur words of anger, his voice getting louder, Athos made the decision to hurry them both back to their room instead of immediately retrieving the cane. He quickly helped d’Artagnan sit on the edge of the bed before shutting the door. 

A flood of curses, negativity, and hopelessness continued to flow from d’Artagnan’s mouth. If the younger man had been able, Athos suspected that d’Artagnan would’ve already fled downstairs and out of the inn. The only uncertainty would have been which option his friend would have chosen to help him simmer down and regain his calm: grooming the horses, going for a long ride, or both. 

As soon as that thought had finished forming in his head, Athos had an idea. In some ways, it would be highly hypocritical of him, but if he could arrange for it to happen, then he thought it might do a world of good for d’Artagnan’s recovery. 

But first he had to stop the Gascon from continuing to spiral down into the well of hopelessness the other man had already made good headway into. 

“Hey!” Athos said, allowing his voice to drip with authority and a touch of displeasure. 

D’Artagnan’s head whipped up and their gazes met even as the Gascon’s mouth shut with an almost-audible click of teeth. 

“Calm yourself. There is no reason for you to—” He held up a hand to forestall d’Artagnan from speaking. “Behave in such a manner. You stumbled. It will happen again.” He softened his voice. “It does not mean you will never walk again. You know this, don’t you?” 

The younger man had bowed his head in shame by the time he had finished speaking. He allowed another moment of defiant silence before adding, “You cannot give up hope.” 

D’Artagnan shook his head. Eyes and head still downcast, the younger man said, “Right now it seems like I’ll never be a Musketeer again, that I’ll never feel worthwhile.” 

“Being a Musketeer is not what makes you worthwhile; it is the other way around.” 

The Gascon raised his head and their eyes met. He could see when d’Artagnan understood the full implication of his words. 

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to speak, before closing it again. After a moment, he seemed to shake off the last of his fit of temper and had made a visible effort at calming himself. 

“Even if you never get the full use of your legs back, you will _not_ be worthless! Do you hear me, d’Artagnan?” 

Running a hand through his hair, the Gascon added, “Yes, yes I hear you, though it’s difficult to believe at times. Thank you, Athos. I apologize for my behavior.” 

Athos nodded his acceptance before saying, “It won’t always be so difficult to believe. I will go and get your cane. After that, would you like a few minutes to yourself? I could check on when dinner will be served.” 

Indecision warred in the younger man’s eyes for a long moment, before he nodded. “Yes, please. I would appreciate that.” 

“Alright, I will be back ere* long.”  

In reality, Athos was loathe to leave d’Artagnan alone, but he couldn’t deny that he had wanted this outcome. He had plans to make. 

ooooooo 

It took him a little longer to return to the room than he would’ve liked, but he had been able to put his plan into motion. Now he just needed to spring his surprise. 

When he entered the room, Athos wasted no time. “How about a change in scenery?” 

“What?” d’Artagnan asked, having been startled while reading, which prompted Athos to repeat his question. 

“I thought I wasn’t ready for the stairs yet?” 

“You’re not, but the innkeeper is waiting down the hall and he has agreed to help me get you downstairs.” 

D’Artagnan’s face lit up with hope.  “Really?” 

Athos nodded while trying to keep his face relatively neutral so the younger man wouldn’t be suspicious. “Shall we?” 

“Yes, definitely,” d’Artagnan said as he put the book down and started to maneuver himself out of the bed. 

Athos opened the door and grabbed for the cane he had left leaning against the wall. “Here; you’re going to need this.” 

The two of them made their way towards the staircase and were joined by Monsieur Gérard. He and the innkeeper used the same method as Aramis and Porthos had previously used to get d’Artagnan down the stairs so that they could take d’Artagnan over to the lavoir. Thankfully, even with the disproportionate heights and girths between him and the innkeeper, there were no mishaps besides a slight wobble when they had first started out. It was obvious d’Artagnan had hardly noticed or cared about how he was getting downstairs, because he seemed so pleased with the idea of being anywhere but upstairs. 

Still carrying d’Artagnan, they quickly and carefully made their way to the inn’s common room and deposited the younger man on a small sofa. He and Gérard locked eyes briefly and the older man slipped out of the room to put the other half of his plan into action. 

Athos thought it was a good idea for d’Artagnan to rest for a few minutes before unveiling the true surprise. From the younger man’s expression, Athos knew d’Artagnan was basically content with the change of scenery, of sitting in front of the fire, and had no idea there was more to come. 

They had been sitting in front of the cheery fire for a couple of minutes, when the innkeeper entered the inn from outside. Athos briefly thought his surprise had been compromised when he heard a horse whinnying outside, but d’Artagnan didn’t seem to hear it. Mentally, he sighed in relief as he met eyes with Gérard, who nodded. 

He let another minute or so pass by before he said, “Are you ready?” 

“Ready? But, Athos, we just sat down! Surely, we can stay a while longer.” 

Athos pretended to consider this for a moment. “We could,…but I thought you might enjoy going outside for a time as well.” 

D’Artagnan mumbled a few choice words under his breath even as he struggled to rise from the sofa. 

“You must be clear on a couple of things, d’Artagnan. We will not be walking far, and you will not try to walk on your own. Agreed?” 

“Yes, fine,” d’Artagnan said, obviously impatient to enjoy the outdoors, but wisely not pushing his limits further than he already had that day. 

The innkeeper hovered alongside them, but did not help other than to open the front door of the inn. 

When they stepped outside, the sun was in their eyes, but with a couple more careful steps forward, d’Artagnan’s true surprise was revealed. Or rather, the surprise revealed itself by neighing and straining at the reins keeping him in place. 

The look on d’Artagnan’s face was priceless; one Athos would not soon forget. It was as if a beacon of happiness had suddenly been lit during the darkest of days. Just as d’Artagnan’s horse was attempting to reach his boy, the boy was now attempting to reach his horse.  Athos, with the innkeeper hovering on the other side just in case, helped the younger man take the remaining steps on uneven ground so that the two could reunite. 

D’Artagnan’s horse nickered, and when the Gascon was close enough, it rested its chin on a shoulder. It was a good thing he and the innkeeper had a good hold on d’Artagnan or the younger man might have fallen due the additional weight suddenly thrust upon the Gascon. The horse seemed to realize something was wrong with his boy, and quickly removed his chin from d’Artagnan’s shoulder, backing up a half step. Nickering once again, the horse then blew a breath into d’Artagnan’s face. D’Artagnan smiled widely at the sign of trust, and reached up to pat the horse’s head and neck. In Athos’s mind, it seemed as if the two were in their own little world. 

While he hated to break up the reunion, Athos could see that d’Artagnan was fast tiring from all the extra effort of the day. He had thought to spring an additional surprise, but realized he had been too ambitious this time around. He did not want to risk a setback at this point in d’Artagnan’s recovery, and they still needed to make their way back up the stairs. 

However, observing the man and the beast so obviously enjoying being in each other’s company again, Athos decided to wait a few minutes longer before breaking the bad news to d’Artagnan that they must go back inside. 

The innkeeper caught his eye, and he shook his head. They would not be continuing with the next phase of the surprise – at least on this day. Monsieur Gérard nodded in understanding, likely noticing how d’Artagnan was having more and more difficulty with keeping his balance the longer he stood. 

Despite not being able to go through with the whole of his surprise, Athos felt the excursion outside had been worth it on many levels, not the least of which was how it had greatly lifted d’Artagnan’s spirits. It had also served as a reminder of what the younger man was working towards – being a fully-capable Musketeer. 

Athos felt certain, d’Artagnan would demand to go see his horse as often as could be managed from now on. Having seen the positive effect it had had on the Gascon, Athos had no problem accommodating that idea whenever possible. 

And perhaps, next time, he would spring the rest of what was supposed to have been today’s surprise – suggesting they go for a short ride. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty-five: One Day at a Time III: Stitches 

**ooooooo**

 

 **Story/History Notes :**

**_Ere_ :**  An archaic version of the word “before”. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	58. Chapter Fifty-five: One Day at a Time III - Stitches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Just a reminder** The “One Day at a Time” chapters will be a series of scenes covering d’Artagnan’s recovery, but not every aspect or minute of it, nor will they necessarily be in chronological order.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-five:   One Day at a Time III – Stitches**

By the time d’Artagnan’s stitches were ready to come out, Athos had it firmly in his head that it would be better if the town’s physician took care of removing them.  

It wasn’t that he didn’t know how, or hadn’t done it before when Aramis wasn’t available, and he had been too impatient to wait any longer, but he simply felt it would be better for the physician to remove them. 

The mistake he hadn’t consciously realized he had made in engaging the physician’s help was that he had not discussed the matter with d’Artagnan first. From the glares sent his way while the physician was carefully removing the stitches, Athos knew the younger man was angry he had made a unilateral decision. He was abundantly aware they were going to have words about the matter once Montfort left. 

In the privacy of his own mind, Athos could admit he was somewhat paranoid – perhaps irrationally – that he would do something wrong and cause the Gascon further harm. Having been part and parcel* to being the source of both physical and emotional injury upon d’Artagnan all too recently, he simply couldn’t stomach the idea of potentially causing any more. Of course, he should have thought things through a little more thoroughly, otherwise he would have realized his decision had likely sent the wrong signals to the younger man. 

Inwardly, he groaned and barely managed to stop himself from cringing when d’Artagnan threw yet another annoyed glare his way. 

And then, like many things in his life, his well-intentioned deed went completely wrong anyway. 

Another reason Athos had wanted the physician to remove the stitches was so he could get an assessment of the progress d’Artagnan had made so far in his recovery. He was fairly certain Montfort had not been informed of the return of feeling to the Gascon’s lower extremities, and knew Aramis had likely not had the time to do it before returning to Paris. This way he could take care of two birds with one stone. 

Everything went well at first. The stitches came out easily, and the physician was genuinely pleased that d’Artagnan had regained feeling and some movement. However, it all went wrong when it became blatantly obvious the physician was of the opinion that d’Artagnan would never fully recover. 

At first, both he and the Gascon let the pointed comments pass, feeling they knew better given their more recent experience. D’Artagnan was capable, with much assistance, of standing and walking a few steps, therefore they had both begun to believe it was only a matter of time until full recovery. 

Athos showed the older man the list that Aramis had left behind of some ideas for therapies and other suggestions to aid in d’Artagnan’s recovery, but the physician scoffed louder and louder as he had continued to read it. The man even went so far as to say that d’Artagnan should be happy to have progressed as far as he had, and declaring it would likely be all the progress the younger man would ever make, even with a cane for extra support. 

He could see how discouraged d’Artagnan was becoming due to the physician’s persistent opinion that a full recovery was impossible. Up until that prognosis, the Gascon had been progressively getting angrier by the situation Athos had created. It was readily apparent that d’Artagnan had wanted to tell the physician off – and likely him as well – but was somehow managing to keep his mouth shut. Athos hoped the trend would continue since Montfort was the only healer in Saint Sulpice, and it wouldn’t do to offend the man on the off-chance they might need his services again. 

The final straw came when he overheard the physician commenting under his breath that d’Artagnan would’ve been better off had he died, so he would not be a burden to his friends and family. Athos almost literally saw red when he’d heard those words, and had a difficult time keeping himself from drawing his sword and immediately running it right through the physician’s heart, assuming the man had one. He was about to say something to the callous man, but was brought short by the expression on d’Artagnan’s face, which gave no doubt the physician’s words had also been overheard by the younger man. 

D’Artagnan’s expression was like a cold bucket of water upon his anger, dousing the rising flames almost immediately. Instead of doing something rash to the physician, he made quick work of getting the man to leave as soon as possible. The longer Montfort’s words had to sink in and take root in the Gascon’s subconscious, the more difficult he believed it would be to get them out again. He did not want to allow such negativity to flourish within his friend’s mind, knowing it would be a detriment to the full recovery he was confident was not only possible, but felt assured would happen. 

When the physician finally left, Athos shut the door with perhaps a bit more force than was strictly necessary. Athos’s mind was already considering his rebuttal to the physician’s negativity, and hoped it wouldn’t take long for the younger man to regain a positive attitude towards his recovery. He remained facing the door for a moment, willing himself to calm down before he turned towards d’Artagnan. 

The younger man had his eyes closed, and his entire countenance remained the epitome of disheartened and discouraged. Athos was just about to say something to dislodge the negative thoughts he was certain had begun to establish themselves inside d’Artagnan’s mind, when the man suddenly shuddered as if he were shrugging water off of himself. Thrown by the puzzling behavior, he started towards d’Artagnan, only to be stopped in his tracks by the look the younger man gave him when the Gascon opened his eyes. 

Instead of the look of dejection he had expected to see, d’Artagnan’s eyes held a fire that likely did not bode well for him. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” d’Artagnan said. 

Athos was very aware of what d’Artagnan meant, but decided to play dumb in order to buy some time because he was uncertain of exactly how to explain his actions. 

D’Artagnan gave him an unimpressed look. “Let me put it this way: Do you suddenly have an aversion to taking stitches out? Because I’ve overheard Aramis giving you grief for removing your own instead of having him do it.” 

He was a little thrown off by the calm fury lacing d’Artagnan’s every word. It was as if the flames of the younger man’s anger were licking at him, getting ready to flare up and consume him. 

Before he could manage to gather his thoughts enough to reply, d’Artagnan had continued. 

“We’ve both removed our own stitches in the past. Today, the physician was suddenly here to do it, and I had no idea he was coming. Interesting timing, because I was going to ask you tomorrow for help taking out the ones in my back since there was no way I was going to be able to reach them.” 

Athos barely had a moment to revel in the fact that d’Artagnan would have trusted  him enough to help with something so personal before the younger man got to the crux of the matter. 

“What I want to know is why you thought you had the right to make a decision regarding my recovery without first seeking any input from me?” 

Suddenly feeling as if his stomach were sinking down into his feet, he said, “D’Artagnan, I—” 

“Don’t get me wrong,” d’Artagnan said, talking right over his attempt to explain his reasoning. “I’m thankful they’re out, because they were starting to get annoying, but I really could’ve done without Montfort telling me it would’ve been better off had I died.” 

Athos couldn’t help flinching at those words, nor could he help the sudden flash of memory of the day d’Artagnan had been shot wherein his hands had been stained red with the younger man’s blood. They had been doing so well in their reconciliation, and now he’d gone and ruined things between them again. 

“It’s difficult enough keeping myself from…” D’Artagnan lifted a hand to run over his eyes before he let out a frustrated sigh. “Why didn’t you ask me what I wanted? You can’t just make decisions for me when we’re not on duty! You had no right; do you not understand that?” 

When the Gascon seemed to be waiting for an explanation, he swallowed down the tightness in his throat before he said, “You’re absolutely correct that I should have consulted you. And you are correct that I could easily have helped you take out your stitches, but I was…worried I might accidentally hurt you in the process. Hence, the physician.” 

Athos briefly looked down at his boots, idly noting that it had been quite a while since they’d last had new soles put on them. When he looked up again, yet not quite meeting the Gascon’s eyes, he continued, “I apologize for not discussing the matter with you first, and for not respecting your right to make your own decisions and choices. It is completely understandable if you do not wish to continue mending our…friendship after this betrayal. I will, of course, continue to—” 

“Athos?” 

He barely registered the attempt to interrupt him, not really hearing what had been said. “—help with your recovery. You can still count on me for—” 

“Athos, stop!” 

This time he did fully register the interruption, the words stopping his near rambling. Barely daring to breathe, he waited for the axe to fall on their attempt at reconciliation. He closed his eyes, waiting for the younger man to continue speaking, yet nothing more was said. 

He opened his eyes, still not daring to look directly at d’Artagnan. When the silence seemed to continue on an interminably long time, he finally dared to meet the other man’s gaze. 

The expression awaiting him was one he had not expected. He couldn’t quite put a name to it as it seemed to encompass more than one emotion. But, if he had to guess its composition, Athos would say that shock, troubled, and perhaps compassion were all a part of it. 

D’Artagnan shook his head slightly as if in disbelief. “Athos, please tell me you weren’t under the assumption that one wrong word, one wrong move would put an end… Please tell me you didn’t believe that.” 

Had he believed that? Now that the notion had been brought to his attention, Athos realized what d’Artagnan had just said must have been sitting in his subconscious ever since the younger man had forgiven him. Had he been walking on eggshells all this time, afraid of doing anything that would anger the young man, as insurance against d’Artagnan’s forgiveness being revoked and any chance of reconciliation permanently gone? 

The Gascon must have seen the answer to the questions he had just asked himself upon his face, because d’Artagnan said, “Oh, Athos… I hadn’t realized, and I don’t think you did either, judging from your expression.” 

Suddenly, it seemed as if he lacked the ability to remain standing; somehow he made it the few steps over to his bed and sat on its edge. D’Artagnan carefully moved to mirror his position. 

Athos rubbed his hands over his face. “I was not aware…” 

“I think… What happened today seems a not-too-unreasonable reaction to our situation. Now that we are both aware, hopefully this won’t happen again.” 

Athos nodded, still feeling a bit dazed from the realization that had been made. 

“Just to be clear, Athos: My forgiveness for what happened while you had amnesia can never, and _will never_ be rescinded. I cannot guarantee what level of reconciliation the future holds for us, but today’s setback was just that – a setback.” 

“I am sorry about the physician; I didn’t want to hurt you, but it seems I did so anyway.” 

“I understand your reasons, and forgive you, but you will not do it again, right?” 

“When we are on duty or a mission, I cannot promise such a thing, but otherwise I agree.” 

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and said, “Works for me.” 

“D’Artagnan, don’t let what Montfort said dishearten you. We have both seen the evidence with our own eyes that you are improving day by day, that you will walk again.” 

“You know what the real problem with what the physician said today was? It was the fact that I already have those thoughts swirling around inside my head each and every day, and every single day I have to push them to the back of my mind. Every single day I have to convince myself to keep moving forward, to not look back, but it can be so difficult at times even with the evidence of my own eyes that I’m getting better.” 

“I am in awe of how determined you have been to recover once you regained feeling in your legs. It is that determination, that Gascon stubbornness, which will see you through to the end.  And I will remind you of that every day if I have to.” 

 D’Artagnan smiled slightly; it was tinged with gratitude and resolve. 

“You just might.” 

Athos’s smile mirrored the younger man’s resolve even as he promised himself to do a better job in keeping his friend’s spirits up. **  
**

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty-six:  One Day at a Time IV 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**_“Part and parcel”_ :**  “A basic or essential part.” Used since the 15th century as a legal term, with part meaning “a portion” and parcel, in its archaic sense meaning, “an integral or component part.” The phrase began to be used more broadly in the 19th century. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing. I blame any remaining mistakes on my lingering migraine.


	59. Chapter Fifty-six: One Day at a Time IV, Part One - Something Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Just a reminder** The “One Day at a Time” chapters are a series of scenes covering d’Artagnan’s recovery, but not every aspect or minute of it, nor will they necessarily be in chronological order.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-six:  One Day at a Time IV, Part One – Something Wrong  
**

Almost from the minute he had awakened, d’Artagnan felt that something was…wrong, off in some way that he did not yet understand. 

Trying to understand the source of the feeling of wrongness, which made his stomach flutter uncomfortably, he slowly opened his eyes and surveyed the room. Athos was still asleep on his bed, back turned towards him. And, after a few seconds, he saw that the older man was breathing, which was quite comforting in its own way. Everything else was as he and Athos had left it the night before when they had called it a night. So far, all seemed right. 

The feeling continuing to persist, he then did a quick survey of his own body. Carefully, he flexed the muscles of his legs, and only felt the slight ache of those muscles he’d overworked the day before in his bid to fully recover. He knew he should be more careful, but if he was as cautious as Athos wanted him to be, then it would be many more weeks before they returned to Paris. 

Despite discovering the slight ache, he knew that wasn’t what was making him edgy, but nothing else was standing out. Wondering if the feeling might not have been some lingering part of a nightmare, he shrugged it off for the time being. He needed to get started on his daily stretches. 

Not long after he started stretching and doing his exercises, he noticed that Athos was stirring. 

“Morning,” he said, his voice croaking slightly for not having spoken since the night before. 

“Morning,” Athos replied with a raspy voice as he sat up to sit on the edge of the bed farthest away from d’Artagnan. 

D’Artagnan had learned long ago that Athos was not a person who enjoyed the mornings, the older man being more of a night owl than an early bird. Typically, he tried to stay out of the man’s way until Athos decided it was time to engage with the rest of the world. Despite his dislike for mornings, and regardless of mood or hangover, Athos would always report for muster on time and competently complete whatever duty he was assigned. As the only fully-capable Musketeer – for the time being at least – Athos had taken on more than his fair share of responsibility. It was only on Sundays, that the older man would sleep in for an extra hour or so. 

Mid-stretch of his left calf muscle, d’Artagnan heard the barest whisper of a groan from Athos as the older man got up off the bed, presumably to go get the bucket of water that would be waiting out in the hall for them. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

“My back,” Athos replied, his voice sounding strained. “I must have slept wrong.” 

Absorbed in what he was doing, d’Artagnan had let the comment go by without any further thought. It would be something he would come to regret later. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : _Chapter Fifty-six:  One Day at a Time IV, Part Two – Something Wrong  
_

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for having to split this chapter into two parts and for this one being so short. Various real life issues limited my writing time this past week, but I decided posting something was better than posting nothing.
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041! Remaining mistakes are, as always, my fault.


	60. Chapter Fifty-six: One Day at a Time IV, Part Two - Something Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  **Warning** I describe a character vomiting in this chapter.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-six:  One Day at a Time IV, Part Two – Something Wrong**

If d’Artagnan had really paid attention to all the little clues that had been right in front of him all along, then he would have had the answer as to why things had felt wrong from the beginning. In his defense though, until it was absolutely unavoidable, he had been kept ignorant of the details while Athos had had amnesia. 

The signs that something was wrong were sprinkled in here and there; if only he had noticed them more quickly. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen them before to some degree or another. 

Athos had barely touched his breakfast, only just finishing a slice of bread and some cheese. 

D’Artagnan had caught the older man reaching up to massage his neck muscles more than once, but had thought it was related to Athos’s back pain. 

When Athos went to check on the lavoir’s availability, he nearly walked into the door frame, seeming slightly off-balance as he continued on his way. 

As the two of them slowly had made their way down the stairs, it was Athos who almost missed a step. Thankfully, his reflexes were getting better, and he’d already had a good grip on the banister, or they would’ve both fallen and been hurt. 

Stepping outside for the first time that day, he’d immediately noticed it was cloudy, though the clouds did not look heavy with rain. If he had looked towards Athos instead of up at the cloud cover, he would’ve seen the older man squint his eyes and keep them half-closed. 

Sadly, his first real inkling of why he had awakened with the feeling that something was wrong was when he and Athos entered the stables. 

As he had continued to improve, they had been making more frequent trips to see the horses. He had finally gotten strong enough to do some of their grooming and they had been going out on short rides. To varying degrees, mounting and dismounting were still a challenge, but being able to ride again made him feel alive and gave him more hope he would be a Musketeer again. 

At this point in his recovery, he didn’t need his cane so much to help him walk, but rather as backup to help him keep his balance when tired or going over uneven ground. Regardless, as a precaution, he kept it with him always. 

For the same reason, Athos seemed to always be by his side wherever they went, only helping him when necessary. Depending on his mood, d’Artagnan was either touched or aggravated by Athos and his continual hovering. He understood why Athos was doing it, but felt the older man could loosen the reins a little more often. 

They’d made their way towards the stables at what was steadily becoming a more like-normal pace for him. D’Artagnan was enjoying the day, happy to be outside even when it was cloudy, and looking forward to the comforting smells of the stables as well as spending time with his horse.  

However, the moment they entered the stables, Athos made an odd sort of gasping sound before suddenly bowing his head. Startled by the sound, d’Artagnan looked over at his friend and could swear the man had become at least four shades paler than his normal coloring. His eyes were closed and d’Artagnan could see Athos’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as if he were continuously swallowing. 

D’Artagnan was pretty certain he knew what these signs meant, but before he could confront Athos about them, the man abruptly turned and practically ran out of the stables. As his friend left, he could hear Athos’s coughing and choking, and expected to hear or see the man vomiting at any moment. 

Unfortunately, he was correct and made it outside just in time to see the remnants of Athos’s meagre breakfast make an abrupt return trip and splatter on the ground, splashing some onto the older man’s boots at the same time.  

Athos had managed to get farther away than d’Artagnan thought he would have been able to under the circumstances. He wanted to run to catch up to the older man, but knew such an action would only end in disaster despite the increasing mobility and strength in his legs. Instead, though very worried, he forced himself to keep a steady pace, using his cane and paying careful attention to his footing.  It took him longer than he would’ve liked to reach the older man, who as he approached, doubled over once again to expel more of his stomach’s contents. 

He hesitated a moment before laying a hand on Athos’s shoulder, which unfortunately startled the man, whose face then scrunched up in pain. D’Artagnan cursed himself for causing his friend even more agony than he already seemed to be in. 

Sighing in frustration, he whispered, “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Athos didn’t, or couldn’t answer; instead, his head hung even lower. 

Taking pity on the man, d’Artagnan quietly said, “Come on.” 

In the time d’Artagnan had taken to reach Athos, the sun had managed to peek out from behind the clouds. So, when the two of them stepped out of the shade of the building and into the sunlight, the brightness nearly brought Athos to his knees. Somehow, d’Artagnan found the strength to keep them from falling, though Athos almost pulled them down again when he started gagging. 

When nothing came up, he grabbed Athos’s hand and moved it to his left shoulder. “Keep your eyes closed.” 

Once he’d seen that the older man had followed his instructions, d’Artagnan began making his way back towards the inn, using his cane to help him keep his balance as he walked with Athos’s weight leaning against him. 

When they made it back inside the inn, and were standing at the bottom of the stairs, d’Artagnan realized he wouldn’t be able to make it upstairs with the extra weight affecting his balance. It was clear Athos would have to take a more active role in getting himself upstairs. 

“Athos,” he quietly said, “You need to open your eyes. I can’t… The stairs…” 

Athos didn’t say anything in reply, but his eyes opened to mere slits. The older man released his bruising grip on d’Artagnan’s shoulder to grasp the banister, while the other hand shielded his eyes from what light there was inside. 

Somehow they made it to the upper level without accidentally killing themselves, but by the time d’Artagnan had helped Athos to sit down upon his bed, the older man was barely functional and seemed only semi-conscious. He hadn’t known about the migraines, or how badly they could affect Athos, until they had gone on the mission that had led them to this inn, so he wasn’t exactly sure what to do to help with them. For a long moment, he was paralyzed by his worry for Athos and his ignorance over what to do to help the man, but then a half-forgotten memory surfaced and he was able to gather his wits and take action. 

Thankfully, the way the inn was situated meant that no direct sunlight came in through the only window in the room, which left one less thing to worry about for the time being. At one point, while he helped Athos get more comfortable and into bed, d’Artagnan quietly asked if Aramis had left anything for the pain. Athos’s answer was not very coherent, but d’Artagnan knew Aramis pretty well by now. 

Despite the dubious way in which Aramis and Porthos had left them, d’Artagnan couldn’t believe the older man wouldn’t take precautions against Athos having more migraine attacks and leave something to aid in countering them. Feeling only a touch guilty for searching Athos’s things without express permission, d’Artagnan went through the man’s saddlebags. Luckily he found a familiar-looking pouch right away. 

Immediately, he set about making up a pain draught and giving it to Athos. Drinking the draught took whatever remaining strength the older man had left, and Athos essentially passed out moments later. Panic set in before he remembered this having happened before while out on the road and that Athos had eventually been alright afterwards. 

Athos still looked miserable and too pale. D’Artagnan moved a chair closer to Athos’s bed and sat down only to suddenly remember how much cold water compresses had helped in the past. He hated the idea of leaving the older man alone, even for a minute, but he wanted to be prepared for the long haul. He checked on Athos one more time, and seeing the older man was still asleep, though obviously in pain, went to inquire about some supplies from the innkeeper. 

As he made his way out of the room, he promised himself that, when Athos was feeling better, they were going to have a little talk. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty-six:  One Day at a Time IV, Part Three – Something Wrong 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this chapter, the characters decided that a change of point of view was in order. Because of that, I decided to split it off and make it a part three. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041! Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	61. Chapter Fifty-six: One Day at a Time IV, Part Three - Something Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Athos insisted on having his say, and it ended up being one of the longest chapters to date. Go figure.   
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-six:  One Day at a Time IV, Part Three – Something Wrong**

Awareness came back slowly for Athos. It’s almost as if it was a boat slowly being pushed ashore by the tide. He was content to drift along with it, relishing the relative calmness. 

At first, he had difficulty thinking beyond the idea that he was awake even though he had yet to open his eyes. His mind felt disconnected from, not only his body, but from the world around him. 

Eventually, the fog lifted just enough to let him remember the excruciating pain of before, and the pain that still lingered. It had started as a mild discomfort he had attributed to sleeping in an awkward position, and had ended with… The last thing he could clearly remember was stepping into the stables with d’Artagnan. 

As a soldier, one got used to the smell of stables, enough to barely notice it, but this time… This time, after the increased light of the outdoors, it was far too much for his already-aching head to handle. After the smell had made his mouth flood with saliva, which had signaled an imminent return of his breakfast, his memories were fragmented. Agonizing pain was his only clear memory. 

That’s when he heard the sound of a page being turned. 

Someone was nearby. 

D’Artagnan. 

Somehow knowing that d’Artagnan was close by brought him comfort despite the continued aching of his head. It was not the all-encompassing pain of before, but it was enough to make him leery of moving any part of his body, including opening his eyes. 

His eyes. There was something damp covering his eyes. What…? Against his better judgment – whatever was left anyway – he shifted position slightly, reaching for the foreign object on his face, and realized he was in a bed. Bed? Presumably, he was in his own bed, but how? 

“Athos?” a voice barely louder than a whisper asked. 

Before he could answer d’Artagnan, the damp object was suddenly removed from his face, and seconds later he heard something make contact with water. His mind was still too foggy and achy to think on it any longer, but it was easy for him to decide to keep his eyes closed. It was too much effort to do otherwise. 

“Athos? Are you awake?” 

“No.” 

There was a huff of laughter. “I won’t even bother to ask how you’re feeling.” 

“Very wise.” 

His head was lifted up slightly, causing a small surge of pain at the change of position, and he was told to drink. Immediately, he recognized Aramis’s concoction for pain, and drank it, not caring in the slightest how foul it had tasted, knowing he needed it. 

After his head was gently laid back down, he’d heard water being sloshed around in some type of vessel – a bucket? – and then lots of water droplets raining down. A moment later he was startled when something damp and cold covered his eyes and forehead again. 

“Is this alright?” d’Artagnan quietly asked. 

It was very alright. It felt wonderful, and made his head feel a bit better, but his words to that effect sounded mumbled to his ears. 

A hand clasped his forearm briefly. “Go back to sleep.” 

ooooooo 

The next time Athos awoke, awareness came back to him more quickly. He chose to drift for a while, relishing in the fact that the pain was gone, or at least seemed to be gone. He was tired and his mind was hazy. He felt as if his thoughts were attempting to move through freshly gathered honey, but acknowledged that this was in fact good news. They were signs that this most recent migraine was coming to an end; he could only hope that there was no relapse. 

The damp cloth over his eyes no longer felt cool, but it was not quite warm either. For far longer than the decision normally required, he considered removing the cloth, but in the end he had decided to leave it. 

Casting his other senses out into the room, he immediately recognized a presence was there with him. The familiarity of it set his mind at ease, yet somehow he could sense this…edge to it. Something was wrong with d’Artagnan. 

His foggy mind tried to come up with possibilities as to why, but in the end he thought it would be better to simply say something which would indicate he was awake. 

“You’re thinking too loudly,” Athos said, surprised his voice sounded so ragged and hoarse. 

“Athos!” d’Artagnan quietly said, sounding quite relieved. “Dare I ask how you’re feeling?” 

He removed the compress from his eyes, and slowly opened them, pleased the light from the lone candle did not feel as if a hot brand had just stabbed him in the eye. 

“My head is still attached, so that’s something,” he replied as he sat up and took the cup of water d’Artagnan had offered him. He sipped at the cool liquid, not wanting his stomach to mutiny and expel its contents yet again. 

D’Artagnan chuckled. “I guess that means you’re finally feeling better.” 

Glancing at the window, he noticed that it was dark outside, which meant he had been out of commission for much longer than he’d originally thought. 

“I am.” 

“Good.” 

D’Artagnan’s reply sounded stilted to him. He was able to see how relieved the younger man was that this migraine attack seemed to be over, but there was still something which seemed off. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. 

“Me?!” d’Artagnan replied a touch too loud, seeming surprised by the question. When he had continued, the Gascon’s voice was once again lower than normal speaking levels. “You’re the one who was sick and in terrible pain!” 

“True, but you were the one who had to deal with everything once I was struck down by that pain.” 

“I managed.” 

“More than managed, from what I can remember. Thank you.” 

D’Artagnan acknowledged the words with a nod of his head before looking away from him. 

“D’Artagnan…?” 

“I’m not sure this is the best time to have any sort of discussion.” 

“My mind’s still a bit foggy, and I’m fatigued, but I assure you I am well enough to talk through what is on your mind. Believe me; you’ll know if things change.” 

The Gascon had bowed his head as he had uttered his reassurances and appeared to think through what he had just said. 

“Alright,” d’Artagnan said as he’d lifted his head to meet his gaze. “What I want to know is why you didn’t speak up sooner about your head pain?” 

Athos was uncertain how to answer. He had the feeling there was some deeper issue behind the question. 

“What I had said about my back this morning was true. My shoulder and neck muscles were tight and I thought I’d slept wrong. However, it wasn’t long before I recognized the signs of an impending migraine attack.” 

“Why didn’t you say something then?” 

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought I could handle it, and did not realize it would put me down quite so hard, nor quite so quickly.” 

“I think you should have realized,” d’Artagnan said before sighing. “This was not the first time your health was compromised in a situation that could’ve ended much differently.” 

“What do—?” 

“What I mean is that, on the way here to Normandy, you had two such attacks. We were out in the open, and your migraines left us down a man. Two, if you count the fact that Aramis’s attention was focused on helping you. Three, with Porthos lending a hand to Aramis. 

“All of us were compromised in one way or another every time you had an attack. We could’ve been ambushed and killed, but we were lucky nothing happened either time. 

“Out on the road, you kept your condition from me until you couldn’t anymore, and only then did I find out that you were having headaches. The others said you made them promise not to tell me, and even then they didn’t give me many details. I kept out of the way, becau—” D’Artagnan bowed his head briefly before continuing. “I didn’t really know what was going on with you then or earlier today – not at first anyway. And then I remembered…” 

“Remembered what?” 

D’Artagnan closed his eyes and shook his head, leaving Athos to believe that the younger man wouldn’t answer. When the Gascon opened his eyes again, he asked, “If I tell you, will you be completely honest with me about your headaches?” 

Without hesitation, Athos said, “Of course.” 

“When I was very young, my mother had severe migraines from time to time. The physician could never figure out the cause, though we thought they seemed to occur with certain changes in the weather. My father was usually too busy dealing with the farm, so I would be the one to help her with them. There wasn’t much to be done, unfortunately; they were just something she had to endure. Darkness, cold compresses, quiet, sleep…” 

“All things you did for me – and more. I am grateful you knew what to do.” 

D’Artagnan dipped his head, and smiled slightly; it seemed brittle, and Athos wondered what would break it. 

“Even though she was in pain, even when all she did was rest or sleep, it was our time together. Sometimes I would take a nap with her. Or, when the headaches would begin to pass, we would quietly talk. Sometimes she would even tell me stories. Farm life is a busy life, but during those migraines, time seemed to magically slow down. After she passed, I missed those quiet times, our talks…but I missed her even more.” 

“I’m sorry d’Artagnan.” 

Silence hung between the two of them for more than a minute before d’Artagnan spoke again. 

“Athos, you said you would be honest with me about your headaches.” 

“Yes?” He was confused; he had thought his agreement to honesty had referred to future headaches, but now he wondered if he had misinterpreted the earlier request. 

“Since Aramis and Porthos left, have you had any other migraines besides this one?” 

“Just one: the day that our friends left us to return to Paris I had a painful headache.” Given the wording of d’Artagnan’s question, it would have been easy to say nothing more, but they were still rebuilding trust, so there needed to be full disclosure between them. “Uh, in addition… After the two you witnessed out on the road, and before our friends left, I had three other headaches of varying degrees. None were anywhere near as bad as this one was.” 

A thoughtful look stole over d’Artagnan’s face, but Athos had no clue what the younger man might be thinking. 

“It…is…troubling,” the Gascon finally said, “that you’re still getting such bad headaches this long after your head injury.” 

It wasn’t a question per se, but he could still hear one, perhaps more, lurking underneath the younger man’s words. He had already noticed how d’Artagnan had avoided certain topics, such as asking why Athos had never disclosed the reasons behind not admitting the truth about his injury-related headaches. 

He guessed the Gascon was leery of reopening the healing wound that lay between them. Yes, forgiveness had been granted, and they were rebuilding their friendship, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t still negative emotions in and around it. Yet, Athos felt a portion of that wound needed reopening, and the infection cleaned out, so it could truly heal. 

Perhaps by telling d’Artagnan about the after-effects of his injury, he could help to repair another hurt his behavior, while an amnesiac, had caused. 

“While fewer in frequency overall, and most are less intense than those right after I was shot, my head injury is still causing me to suffer headaches. Since the last one, I had perhaps grown…complacent in regards to them, hoping they were finally going away.” 

Athos paused to yawn, feeling the post-migraine lethargy gaining ground, making him want to sleep some more. He held up a hand to forestall d’Artagnan from likely suggesting that he rest, because he wanted to finish this conversation while it was still fresh in their minds.  

“Aramis had a physician come see me when the headaches didn’t look like they were going to abate. From what I understood, with such an injury to my head, there is a possibility I might have to endure these headaches for some time – possibly the rest of my life.” When d’Artagnan’s eyes widened in shock and dismay, he hastened to continue. “There is _also_ a possibility that they will decrease in frequency until they go away entirely. Aramis seems to think it will be the latter, since the frequency _has_ definitely decreased.” 

D’Artagnan looked skeptical, but nodded, apparently taking him for his word; it was something he was more than grateful for after everything that had occurred between them. 

“I promise you that it never even occurred to me to tell you any of this once Porthos and Aramis left. To me, the headaches are something I’d, well, not necessarily grown used to, but something that just was. I should’ve explained my condition long before now.” 

His friend snorted, his face clearly expressing what d’Artagnan thought about that statement. Athos waited a moment for him to say something, but apparently the younger man was biding his time. 

“I apologize, d’Artagnan. Our mission was more important than my pride, my desire to not appear weak. In the beginning, I felt that every aspect of my condition was personal, that it was no one’s business but my own. For a while, I…” Athos reached out to lay a hand on d’Artagnan’s forearm briefly to ensure his attention. “You are not the only one who has been uncertain of their future as a Musketeer.” 

After a moment, d’Artagnan’s eyes widened once more, alerting Athos to the fact that the younger man had fully grasped all the various implications of what he'd just said. 

D’Artagnan carefully levered himself up off his chair and began to pace the room. After his fourth or fifth lap, the younger man said, “At least now I know.” His friend walked the length of the room once again before continuing, “And no wonder you’ve been so patient with me – or at least your version of it anyway.” 

Athos was annoyed by the younger man’s cheek, but knew he deserved it. D’Artagnan was trying – and failing – to hold back a grin. 

“Are we good?” he asked the younger man. 

The Gascon nodded as he walked back to the chair beside his bed and sat down heavily. “We’re good, though I think there is still much to be discussed between us.” 

“True,” he replied, yawning once again. 

“But that can wait until you’re feeling more human.” 

“Thank you,” Athos said, as he adjusted the bedclothes and got comfortable, already feeling like he was beginning to drift off to sleep. 

Through heavy, slitted eyes, he watched as d’Artagnan moved the chair back to the table, and realized something, which gave him an idea. 

“D’Artagnan?” Athos honestly did not know if he’d said the name aloud, but he thought he’d heard a noise of acknowledgement. 

He yawned again, the action feeling as if it was going to split his face in two. His eyes had closed and stayed closed without his expressed consent. 

He wasn’t absolutely sure, but he thought d’Artagnan had quietly said, “Sleep well, Athos.” 

He wasn’t positive, but he may or may not have tried to say something in return. He may also have tried to tell d’Artagnan of his idea, that the Gascon was ready to start work on his sword forms again, but he wasn’t certain. 

His thoughts completely slipped away into sleep before he could certain of anything. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty-seven:  One Day at a Time V 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  The next one will more than likely be the last of the One Day at a Time series of chapters.
> 
> Thanks much Celticgal1041 for proofing this chapter! Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	62. Chapter Fifty-seven: One Day at a Time V - Odds & Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for not posting last week. I had the idea for this chapter for a while, but for some reason it refused to be written. I finally got it to cooperate, and it ended up being a lot longer than I thought it would be. It's also the last of the "One Day at a Time" chapters.
> 
> The parts in italics are flashbacks/memories.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-seven:  One Day at a Time V – Odds & Ends**

When Athos and d’Artagnan had been left behind in Saint Sulpice by Aramis and Porthos, they had no idea if they would be able to put aside their differences long enough for d’Artagnan to regain full, nor near-full, mobility. 

However, from the beginning they were united in one belief – Porthos and Aramis were dead men due to the way they had made their escape back to Paris. Despite the captain’s request that two of them return, the method of departure Aramis and Porthos had used had been less than appropriate. 

More than once Athos and d’Artagnan had talked about the possibility of getting some form of revenge against their friends… 

_“Captain Tréville mentioned that there was some sort of outbreak, which is why two of our number had to return earlier than either of us would have liked… I know we’ve talked about getting some sort of revenge against our so-called friends, but what if they caught the illness that had been depleting the ranks? Don’t you think that would be punishment enough for what they did to us?”  
_

_His friend’s expression turned to one of thoughtful consideration for all of fifteen seconds before it turned mischievous.  
_

_The two locked gazes and, in concert, said, “Nope *****.”  
_

_It was another five seconds before they both broke and started laughing.  
_

_“Then, we will bide our time.”  
_

_“Agreed.”_

ooooooo 

To say that d’Artagnan and Athos had an inauspicious start would have been understating things somewhat. 

The fall had led to Athos’s inspiration to purchase a cane as an aid for d’Artagnan. Both being stubborn men, they had disregarded much of Aramis’s list of instructions, and had done things their own way, though they’d still implemented many of the medic’s ideas into their daily routine. 

Too often in the beginning, d’Artagnan had a tendency to overexert himself, which led to him  experiencing painful muscle spasms along the lines of those he’d endured when the feeling had first returned to his legs. The Gascon had been too stubborn to admit to them, and had attempted to endure the spasms on his own without any intervention, but to Athos, it was obvious the younger man was suffering and in quite severe pain at times. 

Athos tried to respect the man’s choices and not interfere, since they had barely started towards reconciliation, but he could stand the situation for only so long before he lost his temper… 

_“For God’s sake, d’Artagnan!”  
_

_The Gascon startled and jumped slightly, failing to completely hide the wince of pain that must have occurred as a result of the movement. “What?! What’s wrong?”  
_

_“Are you seriously going to try to deny that you are in hurting right now?”  
_

_D’Artagnan glared at Athos. If it was possible for someone to burst into flames from such a glare, Athos would already be on fire.  
_

_The younger man jerked his chin up in defiance and refused to answer Athos’s question.  
_

_Athos took several calming breaths and quietly said, “Please don’t… There is no reason why you should be suffering like this.”  
_

_D’Artagnan’s expression softened before it once again showed signs of pain that only those who knew the Gascon would be able to see. The younger man eventually sighed and admitted to his extreme discomfort.  
_

_Later that evening, the two men discussed the issue and the consequences which resulted from trying to rush his recovery. D’Artagnan eventually conceded to the idea that overexerting himself was doing more harm than good, and they worked out a compromise to the situation without losing ground in their reconciliation._

ooooooo 

It wasn’t until after Aramis and Porthos had left Saint Sulpice that d’Artagnan had his doublet returned to him. In the meantime, the man had been using a borrowed cloak every time he went out of doors. 

One day, without any preamble, the doublet had been lying neatly folded on the table in their room. Apparently, Porthos, through Madame Gérard, had followed through on his assurance that something was being done to repair it. 

D’Artagnan was overjoyed to have his doublet back, but was disappointed at the rather obvious and inexpert work that had been done to repair it.  When Athos had first seen the doublet, he had done a double take, and then had been very diplomatic in his vague comments about it. The two men both knew it was god-awful to look at, but d’Artagnan had reasoned it was better than no repairs and not having his doublet. The Gascon was well-aware it would be a while before he could save up enough money to purchase a new one. 

At the time, because d’Artagnan had not yet been able to go downstairs, Athos had made inquiries about the workmanship in his stead. Apparently, the master leathersmith had recently passed away, and the man’s apprentice had not been quite ready to take over the work that had been left behind. From what d’Artagnan could see, the apprentice would have been better off making his living in another way. On the bright side, the Gascon did not have to look upon the shoddy work when he was wearing the garment. 

What d’Artagnan did not know, and had no reason to suspect, was that Athos had conspired with their friends and Captain Tréville to have a new doublet commissioned for the younger man…. 

_At some point, while d’Artagnan had been battling the fever caused by the infection from his wound, Athos, Aramis, and Porthos had whiled away some of the time by conversing on various and sundry topics. At one point, the topic of conversation touched on the Gascon’s doublet.  
_

_They all knew how few possessions the younger man had, and how much money a Musketeer of d’Artagnan’s rank earned. The reality was that it would be quite a while before the Gascon would be able to commission a new one. Having the current one repaired was the best that could be done until that time, since they all knew that d’Artagnan would never accept charity and would be loathe to borrow any money that couldn’t be almost immediately paid back.  
_

_Athos had confided to the others at one point his intention to replace d’Artagnan’s doublet. He’d even come up with several ways to get the stubborn Gascon to accept a new doublet from him, eliciting help from Porthos and Aramis, and later Tréville, to accomplish this self-appointed errand.  
_

_At the conclusion of their mission, when Athos had sent the Captain a missive detailing what had happened, he had included an addendum requesting Tréville do him the kindness of commissioning a duplicate doublet for d’Artagnan, Athos had noted that he would settle the debt for it upon his return to Paris.  
_

_More than once Athos had hoped that, when the time came, he could get d’Artagnan to accept the new doublet as a gift and not as some sort of bribery towards complete reconciliation_. 

ooooooo 

Throughout their time in Saint Sulpice, d’Artagnan and Athos were attempting to regain the bond of friendship that had once closely united them. 

Movement towards full reconciliation required they get to know each other as they were now, and not let how things used to be between them get in the way. 

Some of their interactions were easy, with light-hearted banter managing to find a place in some of their conversations… 

_“Do you remember what I told you about Thomas? That he was everybody’s favorite?”  
_

_Something in d’Artagnan’s expression shifted so that it looked as if he were amused.  
_

_“What?” Athos asked.  
_

_The Gascon’s amusement was quickly replaced by confusion.  
_

_“What amused you just now?” Athos asked.  
_

_D’Artagnan’s expression blanked and he dipped his head for a moment, perhaps in embarrassment. When the younger man looked back up, amusement had returned to his face.  
_

_“I couldn’t help but find it funny that you were asking me if I remembered something given_ your _previous issues with memory loss.”  
_

_Athos tossed a piece of bread at d’Artagnan, who had an unrepentant grin on his face. “Cheeky bastard.”_

ooooooo 

Most evenings, after the two men would finish eating, Athos and d’Artagnan would usually sit and talk before the fire in the common room. 

A whole range of topics were discussed, including some matters related to the time during which Athos had amnesia. One issue that Aramis and Porthos had told Athos about, but that d’Artagnan had yet to mention, was the fact that the younger man had requested permission to work with other Musketeer teams. 

Now that they were working on re-establishing the bond they had once had, Athos was curious if d’Artagnan was going to formally request reassignment to his original team. Athos knew Porthos and Aramis would whole-heartedly endorse such a return, and it was something which the older man greatly desired as well. 

So Athos asked d’Artagnan, and learned some things he hadn’t expected… 

_“I know you had amnesia, and our friends were helping you cope with the aftermath of your injury, but I immediately felt like the odd man out...again. Aramis and Porthos have known you longer, so it didn’t feel right to make them choose between us. It’s part of the reason why I eventually requested that reassignment to work with other teams.”  
_

_Athos was dumbfounded by d’Artagnan’s words. One thought managed to come to the fore just as the younger man continued to speak: How often had d’Artagnan been made to feel like he was the odd man out?  
_

_“I missed my friends, the men I’d come to consider family, and I came to feel more alone than the day my father was murdered.  
_

“ _You hated me, thought me unworthy to be a Musketeer. Combined with my insomnia… I started making mistakes, and believing I was just as unworthy as you assumed. It got to the point where I became convinced that I should—”  
_

_D’Artagnan’s eyes widened as if he hadn’t meant to bring up what he had been about to say.  
_

_“Should what?” Athos asked, as a pit formed in his stomach, while d’Artagnan’s gaze shifted and fixed upon the fireplace in front of them.  
_

_Athos schooled his features, and patiently awaited d’Artagnan’s answer. He tried to re-establish eye contact, but d’Artagnan refused to look at him.  
_

_Finally, d’Artagnan blew out a shaky breath. “Request a transfer. Not just to another team, but out of the Musketeers entirely.”  
_

_“You were just going to leave?”  
_

_“Yes; I thought it would be best for everyone if I were gone.”  
_

_Athos was standing before he truly registered he had moved. As he walked away from the chair he had been sitting in, a noise of frustration escaped his lips and he ran his hands through his hair. For a moment his hands tightened, and he could feel the pull on the hairs trapped between his fingers. He fought to keep control over his temper because he could not afford to lose it now, especially since it was his fault things had deteriorated to the point where d’Artagnan had felt that way.  
_

_“Athos, are you alright? Is it another migraine?”  
_

_He almost laughed at the amount of concern he could hear in the younger man’s voice; concern which he did not deserve.  
_

_Athos ignored d’Artagnan’s inquiries, and dropping his hands from his head, asked, “Better for whom?”  
_

_“What?”  
_

_“Who would it have been better for had you left the Musketeers?” Athos asked as he went to sit back in his chair.  
_

_“Well—”  
_

_Athos interrupted before d’Artagnan could say anything more. “Because it certainly would_ not _have been good for you. The Musketeers are where you belong.”  
_

_D’Artagnan didn’t look entirely convinced, making Athos dread the answer to his next question.  
_

_“And now?”  
_

_“Now what?”  
_

_“Are you still going to transfer out of the Musketeers?”  
_

_For the longest time – too long in Athos’s opinion – the Gascon stared into the fire considering his answer.  
_

_“No,” d’Artagnan finally said, which caused Athos to let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The younger man shrugged and added, “Well, assuming I fully recover, I won’t transfer.”  
_

_Athos smiled, and had to hold himself back from jumping up and hugging the younger man, because he didn’t feel they were at that point yet. He didn’t think he could bear it if his friend had left the Musketeers because of him.  
_

_“Good, because our friends would’ve killed me if you had left us.”  
_

_“Maimed, perhaps. Made you wish you were dead for a while, sure. But killed? I doubt it.”_

ooooooo 

Lately, Athos had been getting the sense that his time in Saint Sulpice was drawing to a close. D’Artagnan was definitely on the mend, but Athos thought the younger man’s progress was beginning to level off. He wondered if it wouldn’t be better for d’Artagnan if the Gascon completed his recuperation in Paris with his fellow Musketeers to aid him. 

Athos missed his friends, and his life in Paris, and believed that d’Artagnan felt the same way. However, Athos had the feeling it wasn’t yet time to address the subject of leaving up to the younger man. Some things still seemed unresolved between them. Before suggesting they return home to the garrison, Athos thought it would best if he talked to d’Artagnan about the one thing he had yet to admit to the Gascon. The one thing he should have said months ago… 

_“I know you have requested I be patient and have faith that we could have some of our old friendship back again….”—Athos ran a hand through his hair—“ I also know you might never be able to let go of what happened between us, our discord, but there is something I wanted you to know. I don’t… I’m not telling you this to influence the progress of our reconciliation, but because I need you to know…”  
_

_“Know what?” d’Artagnan asked, looking confused by the sudden onslaught.  
_

_They had taken a break from working on sword forms and had been sitting quietly, enjoying the sunshine. Perhaps Athos shouldn’t have just sprung the conversation upon the younger man, but it was already too late, so he continued on without apology.  
_

_“Before…before my head injury…”—Athos let out a noise of frustration—“Why is this so difficult?!”  
_

_D’Artagnan stopped him from standing and stalking off towards the inn’s main building.  
_

_“Hey, Athos, come on. Calm down.”—d’Artagnan released Athos’s arm—“Whatever you have to say can wait for—”  
_

_But Athos couldn’t wait. He had already waited far too long to admit that his bond with d’Artagnan went deeper than friendship.  
_

_Without much thought, he practically blurted, “What I want to tell you is: Like Aramis and Porthos, you are like a brother to me.”  
_

_“Yes, I know.”  
_

_Athos had not expected that. Incredulous, he said, “You… know?”  
_

_“Yes, of course, brothers-in-arms. I knew that already.”  
_

_“No, you don’t understand.”  
_

_“I’m fairly certain I do. My father once told me about the bonds of brotherhood that can develop between soldiers. Is that not true?”  
_

_“Yes, it is, but that’s not what I meant,” Athos said, willing d’Artagnan to understand.  
_

_“Then what did you mean?”  
_

_“When I joined the Musketeers, I didn’t want or need any friends, but depending on how you look at it, I was either blessed – or cursed – with friendship with Porthos and Aramis. Yes, we are brothers-in-arms, have that bond of brotherhood, but I also consider them to be my…family. Aramis and Porthos are brothers of the heart…and it is the same with you. I consider_ you _family as well.”  
_

_D’Artagnan’s heart had leapt for joy at Athos’s admission, though at the same time, his head had told him not to believe what he’d just heard. Despite the man having been the one to teach him ‘head over heart,’ d’Artagnan was hoping Athos had meant brothers in the sense of family instead of the brotherhood of soldiers. Remaining uncertain over what to believe, he had decided to act as if the older man had meant the latter definition instead of the former. D’Artagnan would rather be wrong than to get his hopes up only for them to get crushed yet again.  
_

_How many times had he wished for siblings throughout his life? How many times had he wished Athos and the others would consider him family as he did them?  
_

_Not that long ago, Aramis had called them family, and he didn’t think the older man had been lying to him, but he wasn’t absolutely certain of the man’s definition of the word. He had no idea what Porthos’s thoughts were on the matter. Growing up on the streets likely made it difficult to make that kind of bond. Athos… Athos was difficult to get a read on at the best of times. He knew they had been fairly close friends before everything that had happened, but there had never been any indication from the older man that theirs had evolved into a familial bond.  
_

_It was obvious the bond the three older Musketeers had went beyond friendship, beyond brothers-in-arms. Anyone who bothered to really look could see it. He had seen it from the first, and that had been a part of the reason he had gone along with the others to prove Athos’s innocence and prevent the older man from being executed.  
_

_“Please, d’Artagnan,” Athos said, worried he’d made a mistake in admitting this truth. “I know it’s difficult to believe, or that you might think I have an ulterior motive, but I do not. I simply wanted you to know the place you hold in my life, not just before my injury, but still.  
_

_“I very much regret not telling you this before now, before things between us became so…difficult. I realize my timing is not the best, that we still have some ways to go before we—.”  
_

_“Athos, stop.”  
_

_D’Artagnan’s words were quiet, but they managed to almost reverberate around the room. Athos ceased speaking so quickly his teeth audibly clicked when his mouth shut.  
_

_“For a while now, I’ve considered you and Porthos and Aramis to be my family, and I’d hoped that one day you’d feel the same about me. Then that mission to Brest and…  I want to believe you, but I don’t know if my heart could take it if I believed you, and then somewhere down the line it wasn’t true any longer.”  
_

_Athos wasn’t sure what to think about what he’d just heard. His mind had gone blank, unable to form a truly coherent thought. Fortunately, d’Artagnan continued to speak.  
_

_“However… One thing I do remember about families is that they don’t always get along. They fight; they say things they don’t mean; and they do things which hurt each other, but…that does not mean they are not still family.  
_

_“You’re right about the timing, but at least now I know. Your declaration has reminded me that we can still be family. That we_ are _still family. A little estranged right now, but family nonetheless.”  
_

_Though Athos did not want to do so, he once again refrained from hugging d’Artagnan, and instead settled for reaching out a hand to gently squeeze the back of the younger man’s neck. When d’Artagnan leaned into it slightly, and clapped a hand on Athos’s shoulder, he felt that was more than enough for the moment._

ooooooo 

As Athos and d’Artagnan rode their horses back towards the inn, the older man had been thinking about family. Now that Athos had admitted his feelings on the subject, he felt more settled about suggesting they return to Paris. 

Besides, Athos and d’Artagnan still had to get revenge on their brothers for the poor execution of their excellent plan to force them to talk to each other. It may have worked, but their two idiot brothers should not be allowed to get away with such a scheme. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty-eight:  Ready or Not  

**ooooooo**

 

 **Story/History Notes :**

**_“Nope”_ :**  The use of this word is anachronistic to the time period, but I felt it sounded better (more amusing?) than simply using the word “no.” From what I can tell, “nope” seems to have originated in the United States, with its earliest print references dating back to the 1880s. 

**ooooooo**

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault...or are they? ;o)


	63. Chapter Fifty-eight: Ready or Not

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-eight: Ready or Not  
**

Once Athos had admitted that d’Artagnan was a brother-of-the-heart and not just a friend or a brother-in-arms, he felt more at ease with the idea of returning to Paris. Not everything was settled between the two of them, but a sense that it was nearing time to approach d’Artagnan about leaving Saint Sulpice had descended upon him. 

From what he could tell, his younger brother’s legs had recovered as much as they were going to in that small village. D’Artagnan could walk again, steadily and without a cane, faltering rarely but mostly only when overtired. Athos could not see any benefit to remaining at the inn much longer. 

They had been working on d’Artagnan’s sword forms, practicing various moves, and they had even started to spar, though nothing too strenuous thus far. Though his movements were not yet back to the raw grace the younger man once had, Athos felt d’Artagnan would be better able to complete his recovery with the aid of the rest of their Musketeer brothers, and their various styles of training, rather than relying upon him, and his style, alone. 

Two days after their talk about being family, Athos had decided it was time to broach the topic of leaving. 

They had been practicing lunges; d’Artagnan had been tasked with trying to hit Athos’s raised palm acting as target with the end of his sword. First the palm had been a stationary target and then he had moved it up and down to provide a moving target. After that, Athos held up a fisted hand and opened it only for a brief moment. D’Artagnan had to concentrate on his timing as well as concentrating on distance and the proper movement for the lunge. 

When he had first become a recruit, d’Artagnan had only had a slight problem with his timing when trying to hit the open palm and not the fist. It was something that had been quickly rectified, once he had started to help the younger man train. Once d’Artagnan had regained enough strength in his legs to incorporate sword work into his daily routine, he had problems completing a basic lunge done only for form and not to hit a target. The Gascon had difficulties holding the stance for any length of time, and his stability was shot, making him wobbly and liable to stumble. 

D’Artagnan had been impatient with his progress, and had begun to work himself harder to get his sword forms perfect once again, which had resulted in some leg pain, and another discussion about how overexertion could only set him back further. Occasionally, Athos would glimpse something else warring with d’Artagnan’s impatience, but he could not figure out what that was. 

Gradually, noticeable improvement had been made in all areas of training, which relieved him almost more than it had d’Artagnan. They had even progressed to some light sparring, which had brought that look back to d’Artagnan’s eyes. 

At this point, there were still some lingering issues, but to his mind, they were nothing that wouldn’t be overcome in the near future. When he had noticed that the Gascon had defeated the issue of timing in his lunges, he decided that it was time to talk to d’Artagnan. 

The two of them had received permission from the innkeeper to use an open area behind the stables, and out of the sight of prying eyes, to practice sword work. The rest of the area was bordered by trees, and they had taken a break leaning against a fallen tree trunk that was currently in the shade, sipping at the ale they had brought out with them. 

“I believe it is time we return to Paris,” Athos said. 

The words had been spoken before he realized he even said them. 

D’Artagnan, who had been lifting his mug of ale up to his lips, froze at those words. The hand remained frozen for a moment longer before the younger man finally blinked and then followed through with drinking some of the mug’s contents down. 

The Gascon wiped his mouth and, in a flat tone, said, “You do.” 

Athos nodded, but he had noticed that odd look had reappeared in his brother’s eyes. “Yes, don’t you?” 

“My legs—” 

“Are as good as they can be at this stage in your recovery. We were not meant to spend the whole of your recovery here. I see no reason why you couldn’t complete it back at the garrison. You might even be ready to attend to light duties.” 

When the younger man had not responded in any way to his statements, Athos had been surprised. He had thought d’Artagnan would be more than eager to resume his duties, given the concerns d’Artagnan had once expressed about no longer being able to serve as a Musketeer. Yet, when he looked at the younger man’s face, all he could see was that look, which he suddenly realized might be doubt or apprehension. 

Finally understanding what he might be up against, Athos asked, “D’Artagnan, what’s wrong?” 

The Gascon toyed with the rim of his mug for a moment before taking another drink and then setting it on the ground. “I knew this was coming. I did, but…I’m not ready to go back.” 

Athos nearly choked on a sip of ale. That was _not_ what he’d expected to hear. “Why ever not?” 

“Because… Just… I don’t know!” 

D’Artagnan threw his hands up and abruptly stood. He had barely started towards the clearing when his left foot dragged slightly on the ground, causing him to stumble. A stream of curses Porthos would be proud of poured from his friend’s mouth, but it was the look in d’Artagnan’s eyes which had caught his attention. 

“You have lost confidence in your abilities,” Athos stated once the younger man finished cursing, knowing what he said was at least part of the truth. 

D’Artagnan said nothing, and turned to face away from Athos, hands on his hips. Yet, a glimpse of the younger man’s face was enough to tell him he had read the situation right. 

“This injury so close on the heels of what you went through because of my amnesia has rattled you. It is perfectly understandable to feel this way. Everyone loses confidence at some point in their lives. After Thomas…” he trailed off and sighed, unwilling to dredge up old memories, but had an inkling that d’Artagnan knew what he meant anyway. "Once I had joined the Musketeers, I slowly regained my confidence. I believe the same will occur for you.” 

“But I’m not ready!” 

“You are,” he said as he stood, trying to keep calm. 

“I’m worthless this way.” 

“You are not,” he said, wanting to shake the younger man, until the words sank in. “But you will be if you do not return to duty. You are ready. Maybe not for full duty, but you can walk and you can ride. More time and exercise will take care of what you still need to work on. It is time to return home.” 

D’Artagnan growled in frustration and ran his hands through his hair before putting his hands back on his hips. 

“Athos… When I think of the garrison, I can’t help but remember when your memory was gone, when you treated me like I was dung upon your boot, when other Musketeers followed suit and did the same… I was lonely, miserable, not sleeping much, not eating much… Right now the garrison doesn’t feel like home to me.” 

Athos gently laid a hand to rest on one of d’Artagnan’s shoulder blades. He added pressure to the weight of his hand and nodded towards the fallen tree trunk they had recently been resting against. D’Artagnan followed him back to the tree trunk without hesitation, but this time they sat on it instead of sitting on the ground and leaning against it. The Gascon sighed and leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees, his hands hanging between them. 

Athos wondered what could be said that would get d’Artagnan to feel more confident about his recovery and their return back to Paris. His brother had been through so much recently, much of it his fault, but he knew d’Artagnan’s innate stubbornness was still intact; he’d seen it boldly displayed many times these past weeks. Now he just had to get the younger man determined enough to see things through. Athos was convinced that, if d’Artagnan did follow through, he’d be stronger for it in the end. 

“My father once told me that tests are a gift. And great tests are a great gift. To fail the test is a misfortune. But to refuse the test is to refuse the gift. It’s not just a misfortune; it’s something worse, something more…irrevocable than that. Does that make sense?” *****

“Yes, I think so,” d’Artagnan said after a moment. 

Athos recognized the younger man’s reaction; it was similar to the one he’d had after his father had said those words, and he knew he would have to explain further. 

“In the past year, you have been tested more than once. You’ve faced each test, accepted those gifts, with skill, determination, stubbornness, and courage. You’ve had your failures, your disappointments, but you’ve also had your successes. Your commission for one. The speed at which you earned it, though you lacked experience in the army or with any militia... Only during times of war are commissions earned any faster, though not by much.” 

He paused to gauge whether or not he was getting through to d’Artagnan, and could still see doubt lingering in the younger man’s eyes. 

“More recently, the trials you have undergone have become much more difficult. They have tested you and your limits in ways you likely thought would never happen. At times they were seemingly insurmountable, especially when you thought you might never walk again. 

“But despite some setbacks, you accepted those great gifts and achieved so much in a short time. If it’s only fear of what might be, fear of facing what happened before at the garrison, then you have not the right to refuse that gift. ***** It is simply another test, another gift, which you should accept. And remember: You will not have to face the garrison alone; your family will be standing with you. 

“Just before you earned your commission, when Captain Tréville had decided to take on the challenge for himself, I confronted him about his decision. At the time, I’d not known the real reason he’d done it and had been so…angry on your behalf. I’d thought he’d stolen your best chance at a commission. I told him that you were capable of being “a fine Musketeer, perhaps the greatest of us all.” ***** I still believe that; I still have absolute confidence you will prove me correct one day…but only if you accept this next gift.” 

He had said all he could say, but couldn’t tell if he had gotten through to d’Artagnan. His friend’s expression was not giving anything away. 

“Tomorrow,” d’Artagnan said, grabbing his weapons belt as he stood. 

“What?” 

“We should leave tomorrow,” d’Artagnan said as he began making his way back to the middle of their practice area. 

He took a last drink of his ale to hide his smile. “If that is what you wish.” 

Athos stood and grabbed his own weapons belt up from the ground. When he stood straight, d’Artagnan was right there in front of him, startling him a little. They faced each other, not saying anything for a long moment. D’Artagnan had an odd expression on his face that Athos had only just guessed might be indecision before he was suddenly being grabbed into a fierce hug. 

He was so surprised by it, that it took his brain far too long to get his body to reciprocate. No longer holding himself back, he lifted his arms and hugged d’Artagnan back just as fiercely. 

After a moment, he heard d’Artagnan whisper, “Thank you, Athos.” 

“I am so proud of you, brother,” Athos whispered in return. 

D’Artagnan squeezed a final time before he let go and started back towards the center of the practice area. 

As he walked away, the Gascon looked back towards Athos with a somewhat cheeky grin on his face. “You know… All those kind words…. I think that was the most of I’ve ever heard you say at one time.” 

Repressing his own grin, Athos said, “I take them all back. I didn’t mean any of it.” 

D’Artagnan’s laughter was music to his ears. **  
**

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty-nine: The Return ( _tentative title_ ) 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**“ _Tests are a gift. And great… Do you…saying?”:_ **   I very recently re-read _Shards of Honor_ by Lois McMasters Bujold, and thought this fit the chapter perfectly. Here’s the original text: “But I’ve always thought—tests are a gift. And great tests are a great gift. To fail the test is a misfortune. But to refuse the test is to refuse the gift, and something worse, more irrevocable, than misfortune. Do you understand what I’m saying?” (From page 290 of my 1986 paperback edition; Spoken by Lady Cordelia Vorkosigan.) If you like sci-fi, and have not read any of Bujold’s novels, I highly recommend them. 

**“ _If it’s only fear of…gift.”:_**  Also inspired by _Shards of Honor_ by Lois McMasters Bujold.  Original text: “But if it’s only fear of failure—you have not the right to refuse the gift for that.” (From page 290 of my 1986 paperback edition; Spoken by Lady Cordelia Vorkosigan.) 

**“[ _A_ ] _fine Musketeer, perhaps the greatest of us all_.”:** Quoted from episode 1.08, The Challenge, written by Susie Conklin.   

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter so quickly. Remaining mistakes are my fault. Thanks also to Yorokobi Asahi for letting me borrow the part about the lunges. I hope I didn’t mess that part up too much.


	64. Chapter Fifty-nine: The Return, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  My apologies for taking so long to finish this chapter. I have wanted to write one from Aramis and Porthos’s perspectives for a long time now, and my desire to skip having to write Athos and d’Artagnan’s return trip to Paris gave me a great opportunity to do so. Because it got so ridiculously long, I decided to split the chapter into two parts.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-nine: The Return, Part One**

When Porthos and Aramis had left d’Artagnan and Athos behind in Saint Sulpice, they had no idea if their hastily put together plan would work. Or rather, it had been Porthos’s last-second idea to which Aramis had reluctantly agreed. 

The vast gulf that had opened between Athos and d’Artagnan had only kept widening, and they had no longer known what to do to help their friends. It had been difficult enough to have their friends at odds when Athos had amnesia, but for them to still be at odds _after_ Athos’s memories had returned had been almost more difficult to bear. 

From the beginning, the two of them had been placed squarely in the middle between their friends, finding themselves in too many situations where they’d had to essentially choose between Athos and d’Artagnan. By virtue of the fact that they were the ones who, aside from Captain Tréville, knew Athos the best, Aramis and Porthos were logically the ones the man would trust the most with his condition and feel the most at ease around. They were the ones best equipped to handle the fallout and to help Athos navigate the after-effects of his injury. 

What they truly hadn’t comprehended until it was far too late was how their extreme focus on Athos had affected d’Artagnan. Athos’s immediate dislike of, and refusal to interact with, d’Artagnan had only made matters worse. Due to the extra care they had needed to give the older man due to his migraines and other lingering symptoms, along with having been sworn to secrecy about them, they had left d’Artagnan largely to his own devices more often than not. They hadn’t realized that their behavior had been enough to convince the Gascon that they no longer cared about him. 

Because of their focus on Athos, they had only belatedly realized d’Artagnan had quite skillfully withdrawn from their company once they had returned to Paris. They barely saw the younger man when not on duty together, and had great difficulty finding d’Artagnan when off duty so they could spend what little spare time they had with him. They didn’t want to believe it, but it appeared as if Athos’s rejection had driven their friend to reciprocate in kind with all three of them. The thought hurt them, but they couldn’t help but wonder if they had a right to that hurt. 

When they were assigned duty together, Porthos and Aramis could see how worn down and depressed the younger man was. To Aramis’s experienced eye, d’Artagnan’s insomnia had become a chronic affliction, and it appeared eating had somehow become optional in the young man’s mind, if the lost weight was any indication. D’Artagnan had cut himself almost completely off from them, never seeking them out and only speaking to them if they happened to cross paths. 

Athos’s systematic persecution of the Gascon had not helped matters either. Individually and together, the two of them had tried talking to Athos more than once about d’Artagnan, but nothing could convince the man that d’Artagnan had been his good friend. It seemed Athos could not even grasp the concept of friendship – past, present, or future – with the Gascon. 

In fact, Athos – consciously or not – did just about everything to make d’Artagnan’s life worse, including calling the younger man “Boy”, which had begun to be cruelly used by others, and giving punishment for the smallest infraction. Nothing d’Artagnan could do or say could make Athos dislike or distrust the Gascon any less. 

The day Athos had accidentally hurt d’Artagnan sparring with him seemed to be a major turning point.  Porthos and Aramis had already heard of d’Artagnan’s reassignment to work with other Musketeers, ostensibly to gain more experience, which only served to remind them how much they had failed the Gascon as friends and had them believing things would never be the same again. 

When all four of them had been assigned to sword training one day, Porthos had been happy with the prospect of interacting with d’Artagnan after hardly seeing the younger man for the past few days. Once again Aramis and Porthos had attempted to reason with Athos about his treatment of d’Artagnan. They even tried to convince him that the Gascon had once been his protégé in the art of sword fighting, having taught d’Artagnan moves which previously only Athos had mastery of. 

_“Ask him. You’ll see*,” Porthos said, tipping his head towards d’Artagnan who was passing by the three of them and heading towards the practice field.  
_

_Athos scoffed, and opened his mouth to say something no doubt disparaging about the Gascon.  
_

_Aramis interrupted whatever the other man might have said in reply. “Frankly, I’m offended that you don’t believe anything we’ve told you about d’Artagnan. Do you hold us in so little regard that you think we’d lie to you about something like this?”  
_

_“No, I… I had no intention of offending,” Athos said.  
_

_Porthos crossed his arms over his chest. “Then what did you intend?”  
_

_Athos did not answer, and instead angrily strode off towards the practice field.  
_

_Aramis sighed. “Porthos…”  
_

_“I know. I just hope we didn’t make things worse.”_

Based on what had happened during training, they had made things worse. When Athos had challenged d’Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis thought they had finally gotten through to their friend. Watching the two spar, it seemed as if they had gone back in time to before Athos’s head injury. D’Artagnan seemed to genuinely be enjoying life for the first time in far too long; even Athos looked to be enjoying the exercise against someone of skill. 

Then it had gone all wrong. 

While the two had fought, both Aramis and Porthos saw the moment d’Artagnan used a move that had once been exclusive to Athos which the younger man had mastered. They had been proud of d’Artagnan for nearly getting the upper hand, but then they’d witnessed how Athos had reacted. Athos obviously recognized the move and had realized what it meant. During their next engagement, Athos had become overly aggressive and had managed to wound d’Artagnan. Fortunately, it seemed to be an accident, but the damage had been done – and not just physically. 

Things had gone even further downhill from there. Not long after that incident, the four of them had been assigned the mission to Normandy. Athos had been dead set against d’Artagnan accompanying them, and had argued loudly against it with Tréville, but orders were orders and their friend had to follow them whether he liked it or not. Once Athos had stormed out of the Captain’s office, Tréville had admitted to them that he thought this might be their last chance to get through to their friend. If not, then d’Artagnan’s temporary assignment to other teams would have to become permanent. Discord amongst teams could not be permitted as it could only lead to mistakes and injuries – or worse. 

Athos essentially ignored d’Artagnan when he wasn’t giving the Gascon an order or a reprimand, and gave the younger man the worst watches and chores. D’Artagnan kept his distance from all three of them, hardly spoke, barely ate, and scarcely slept.  Porthos and Aramis couldn’t help but wonder how much more d’Artagnan could take, and everything they did only seemed to make things worse for the younger man. Once again they wondered if it was worth speaking up if it only caused their young friend more problems. 

On the road, Athos himself had twice given away the secret they had been keeping about the lingering symptoms of the man’s injury. Both Aramis and Porthos were relieved that d’Artagnan had found out something of what was going on with Athos as they had not liked keeping the promise they’d made. Out on a mission, being aware of such limitations was essential so that they could be compensated for should they become a factor or hindrance. They had apologized to d’Artagnan, and knew he understood, but could see that forgiveness might be some time coming. 

The day they were ambushed, d’Artagnan seemed more thoughtful than usual as well as fairly cagey. Porthos had first noticed it after they had left Toutainville, and had mentioned it to Aramis. Neither of them knew what was going on with d’Artagnan, and they were highly doubtful of getting a straight answer if they asked. 

When the first shots rang out, and they were attacked by eight ragged-looking men, it seemed just like any other skirmish where they were outnumbered two-to-one. Aramis had managed a direct hit on one man when they had returned fire on the raiders, so he’d only had to worry about dispatching one opponent at the outset, which turned out to be easier than he’d thought it would be. Porthos was still engaged in fighting his two opponents, apparently having decided to try to keep them alive for questioning, when he’d heard d’Artagnan shout Athos’s name. 

In the next moment, a shot had rung out, and suddenly both d’Artagnan and Athos were falling to the ground. Porthos, worried about his friends, had immediately changed his mind about keeping the raiders he was fighting alive. He briefly met Aramis’s gaze, seeing the man was torn between checking on the others or helping Porthos. In the end, Aramis had jumped in to aid Porthos, deciding it was best to take care of the remaining threats first. If their friends were hurt, they didn’t have time to deal with prisoners; the four of them would find some other way of completing their mission. 

One of the two remaining raiders was on his knees, mortally wounded, while the other was still attempting to fight despite numerous slashes to his limbs and torso, when they heard Athos’s panicked-sounding shout for Aramis. Quickly, Porthos and Aramis dispatched the final two raiders before racing over to aid their friends who were still lying on the ground. As they ran, Aramis said a quick prayer to which Porthos echoed the man’s _Amen_. 

From then on, time seemed to blur for the two men. D’Artagnan shot in the back and possibly dying. Racing towards Saint Sulpice for a physician. Aramis having to take the bullet out and then needing to battle the resultant infection. Athos’s memories having returned along with the bonus of additional guilt. Porthos being a rock for them all, keeping them reasonably sane as well as helping them stay fed and rested. 

And then d’Artagnan finally regained consciousness… 

Discovering that d’Artagnan could not feel or move his legs, had been a crushing blow to the Musketeers. Aramis couldn’t help but think of his friend Phillipe in this situation, realizing he was once again helpless in facing someone he cared about who might never walk again. Guilt took root and blossomed until Porthos and Athos helped him see that without treatment, d’Artagnan would surely have died. With treatment, d’Artagnan still had a chance to make a full recovery. Instead of guilt, Aramis had begun focusing on hope and praying for a miracle.   

Aramis and Porthos were left to deal with the majority of d’Artagnan’s needs due to the fact that the younger man was reluctant to have Athos anywhere nearby. They engineered a time for Athos to inform d’Artagnan about the return of his memories, but that plan had apparently spectacularly backfired when they heard loud voices coming from their room. They’d returned just in time for Athos to storm past them. 

D’Artagnan would not tell them exactly what happened, but it was clear to the two older men that their friend had been left even more demoralized. Aramis had to talk Porthos out of going after Athos to punch some sense into the man; they really didn’t need any further division amongst themselves. 

But division came anyway, this time in the form of a missive from the mayor of Ponteau de Mer. Athos left to finish their mission at the mayor’s request, leaving the two of them to clean up another of the man’s messes, though this time it was not related to alcohol. 

With Athos away, it had been left to Aramis and Porthos to convince d’Artagnan that their friend’s memories had indeed returned… 

_“With…everything that’s…happened recently, there was not the, uh, opportunity to tell you something. Some good news actually,” Aramis said, mentally bemoaning his inadequate start to the much-delayed conversation.  
_

_Porthos rolled his eyes at Aramis’s awkwardness, feeling it would take too long for the man to get to the point at the current rate, so he decided to be perfectly blunt.  
_

_“Athos’s memories came back the day you got shot.”  
_

_“Porthos!” Aramis said before throwing up his hands in frustration. “A little tact—”  
_

_“What did you say?” d’Artagnan asked, his voice quiet though his words seemed to ring out loud and clear nonetheless.  
_

_“Athos no longer has amnesia,” Aramis said.  
_

_“He remembers…?”  
_

_“Yes,” Porthos replied.  
_

_Wariness stole over d’Artagnan’s expression. The Gascon opened his mouth once and then immediately shut it before finally shaking his head.  
_

_“You don’t believe us,” Aramis stated.  
_

_Porthos took the younger man’s silence as an admission, and started getting angry. “Are you calling us liars?”  
_

_“No!” d’Artagnan said, looking alarmed. “No… Not liars. Just…wondering if perhaps you might have…exaggerated the truth.”  
_

_“Why on earth—?” Aramis sighed in frustration and put his hands on his hips. “Do you think we’d really do that to you?”  
_

_D’Artagnan quietly considered the question for what seemed to be a long time before he shook his head in the negative. “Thank you for telling me.” The Gascon smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “That_ is _…good…news.”  
_

_Porthos immediately wanted to call d’Artagnan out on the obvious placating tone, but Aramis caught his eye and followed it with a gesture that signaled him to drop it, so he let the matter go for the time being_. 

Even after they had shared the news about Athos’s memories returning, their young friend had become far too subdued and withdrawn. D’Artagnan’s still-recovering appetite had taken a step backwards and he didn’t seem interested in life outside their room. The two remained patient – how could they not when Athos was their friend? – and began coaxing the Gascon to come out of his self-imposed shell. 

One of their talks gave Aramis and Porthos an opportunity to confront d’Artagnan about his disappearing act from their lives… 

_“I thought we were your friends. Why did you shut us out like that?” Aramis asked, his words increasing in volume. He took a calming breath, and forced his voice back to normal tones. “We looked for you, but you never seemed to be at the garrison. And when you were there, when we actually caught a glimpse of you, you were gone in the next moment. It was almost like you had not been there in the first place.”  
_

_D’Artagnan shrugged. “Athos needed you.”  
_

_“So did you,” Porthos said.  
_

_D’Artagnan punched his mattress with a fist. “No! No, I didn’t. Not like Athos did. He lost so much when his memory was taken away. All that progress… He needed his friends around him.”  
_

_Porthos laid a hand on d’Artagnan’s forearm. “So did you.”  
_

_“No—”  
_

_“Yes!” Aramis said, his voice brooking no further argument. “We should’ve tried harder to…to not let this tear us apart.”  
_

_“And I should not have despaired so much, should not have given up so easily.” D’Artagnan paused and ran a hand through his hair. “We all made mistakes. How about we simply acknowledge that fact, and move on. What do you think?”_

The day before Athos returned from attempting to complete their mission, Porthos and Aramis had been frightened half out of their wits when they’d returned to their room and found d’Artagnan on the floor with a bloody knife in one hand and a dead body lying over his legs. They had only been downstairs for about an hour or so, giving d’Artagnan some much needed time to be alone, providing him a break from the overbearing coddling which they had been indulging in since Athos left. Neither of them could help their actions, wanting to make up for causing the younger man to believe they had been withdrawing their friendship or that it was Athos who was more important. 

However, they had both been more than happy to leave the Gascon for an hour if it would make their friend stop relating supposedly amusing or fascinating stories about events that had happened on his farm. They had no idea why d’Artagnan loved to tell stories like that; these stories usually started out semi-interesting before either becoming incredibly disgusting or extremely boring. It had gotten to the point in their acquaintance with their friend that they made some excuse to not hear yet another tale about animal husbandry.

It was in trying to get to the bottom of what had happened that they had discovered a miracle had occurred – d’Artagnan could once again feel his legs. Sadly, that miracle had an unfortunate side-effect of painful muscle spasms which tormented the younger man even during a drug induced sleep. 

Their run of spotty luck continued when Athos returned to find an empty room and had assumed the worst about d’Artagnan. Porthos had realized what was going on and had managed to prevent Athos’s panic and despair from escalating, showing him that d’Artagnan was alive and well. Of course that newfound semi-calm had gone directly out the window when they’d had to tell Athos about d’Artagnan being attacked. If looks could kill, they surely would’ve been ripped to shreds by the glare Athos had leveled at them. 

With some explanations on their part, Athos viewing the corpse of the man d’Artagnan had killed, and a debriefing about Athos’s time away, they realized some excellent news – their mission was finally over. However, before they could celebrate or hear the full story of what happened when d’Artagnan was attacked, the side effect which had been plaguing him for too many hours had suddenly reared its ugly head. 

Because they felt they owed d’Artagnan for their actions while Athos had amnesia, Aramis and Porthos had taken the opportunity to torment Athos a bit after their friend had discovered d’Artagnan could once again move his legs. Even though the man deserved it, the two didn’t keep the torment up for very long because it was ultimately not fair to Athos despite everything that had happened. 

Having Athos back amongst them didn’t necessarily help improve the general mood. Athos’s memories had returned, and his treatment of d’Artagnan had naturally improved as a result, though there was a strange tentativeness about the way the man acted around the Gascon. Porthos and Aramis provided distractions when possible to break up the tension between their friends when it became overpowering. In essence, they had resumed their place of being firmly in the middle in regards to their friends’ lingering issues. Both men were exceedingly aware that their stubborn friends needed to take some time to air their grievances, but so far their brothers seemed to be at a stalemate, each ostensibly content to keep the current, awkward status quo. 

In the rare moments where Aramis and Porthos had been able to speak privately about the situation, they admitted to each other that they were getting fed up with being put in the middle, having to keep the peace, and preventing tempers from flaring. They were sick in heart over the continuing rift between their friends, but didn’t have any more ideas how to get the two to talk to each other. Other than going to the extreme of following Porthos’s semi-serious idea of forcing d’Artagnan and Athos to get to the heart of their discord by bashing their heads together and locking them up in a room, they would have to wait for inspiration or opportunity to come upon them.

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Fifty-nine: The Return, Part Two 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**“ _Ask him. You’ll see … Frankly, I’m offended that…”:_** If you recognize some of the dialogue in this section, it’s because it originally appeared in Chapter Fifteen: Training Day, but from d’Artagnan’s limited point of view. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  To those who celebrate Passover or Easter… I hope you have much blessed holidays. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing. Remaining mistakes are the Easter Bunny's fault. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	65. Chapter Fifty-nine: The Return, Part Two

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Fifty-nine:  The Return, Part Two**

When Captain Tréville’s missive arrived, Aramis and Porthos finally had their opportunity to do something about their stubborn friends’ stalemate. 

The news about their fellow Musketeers back in Paris had been quite worrying. Yet, it was Athos’s decision of who would and would not be returning, which had the two of them internally lamenting and cursing the additional delay the separation would cause in getting their friends to begin working things out between them. None of them wanted to split up but duty was calling, and so they had to obey. For Porthos, it had provided inspiration for a nascent plan. 

At the same moment Porthos had volunteered to go to the innkeeper and inform him of their departure, he’d also had the idea of how to force their idiot friends into getting over their problems. Two of them had to return to Paris and two of them would return – just not the two that Athos was expecting. He was fairly certain Aramis would be willing to go along with his idea; they had been looking for an opportunity and had just had one drop into their laps. Passing it up would be more ridiculous than the awkward avoidance dance d’Artagnan and Athos were performing non-stop. 

The first chance he got, Porthos told Aramis his idea. Despite his reservations about leaving a wounded d’Artagnan behind, Aramis had agreed, knowing it was a chance they should not squander. They’d quickly sketched out a plan, knowing their actions would not be well-received at the outset, but hoping that would change in the end. 

Porthos had pointed out their primary problem regarding leaving without their friends noticing – both Athos and d’Artagnan had a tendency to be light sleepers. Porthos suggested getting the two extremely drunk, but Aramis had vetoed that idea, having pointed out that Athos had been keeping to his self-imposed limit of one cup of wine per day. Aramis had reluctantly suggested that a sleeping draught would solve their problem. Porthos wasn’t thrilled with the idea either, but with them out of the picture, Athos and d’Artagnan would no longer have them as a buffer against talking to each other. In the end, the two decided that it would be worth the hell they’d eventually pay if their friends might be able to reconcile. 

Aramis and Porthos had suggested to their friends that, since it would be their last night together for some time, they should eat downstairs in the common room. Prior to this, they had been taking their meals in their room to make things easier for them all, especially for d’Artagnan. At first d’Artagnan had been dead set against the idea, not wanting the two to go through the extra effort, but in the end, they had managed to convince him. 

Aramis had used the excuse of setting up dinner, to be able to take the needed time to write out some suggestions for how to handle d’Artagnan’s recovery going forward. He knew some of his suggestions would anger d’Artagnan, but it could not be helped. For one who loved the outdoors as much as d’Artagnan, it would be difficult being restricted to the upstairs level of the inn once again. Aramis prayed his young brother would not speed along his recovery to the detriment of his health just to escape the confines of their room. 

They hadn’t been quite sure how they’d get their friends to unwittingly ingest the sleeping draught, but the timely distraction of the arrival of their meal had done the trick, and it had been added to their cups of wine. Overall, they hadn’t spent much time downstairs. The sleeping draught, and exhaustion due to his still-recovering body, had combined to make d’Artagnan ready for sleep a little earlier than normal. Aramis and Porthos took d’Artagnan back upstairs and put their young friend to bed. By the time they’d done that, and had gone back downstairs, Athos had been asleep in front of the fire. 

Once they’d manhandled Athos back upstairs and into bed, the two had sought out the innkeeper and requested something for their friends to break their fast in the morning. Aramis had explained about them having decided to leave earlier than planned, giving Gérard his note to give to Athos when the man delivered the food. 

They’d quickly packed up what belongings they’d brought with them upon returning to their room before going to sleep. Though it was Porthos’s turn to be the Gascon’s bunkmate, Aramis had requested that he be the one to share with d’Artagnan instead. Aramis had wanted to be close in order to make sure he wasn’t leaving his injured friend too soon in d’Artagnan’s recovery. 

Dawn had barely broken when Porthos and Aramis got ready to leave their friends. For a few moments, they thought their plan had been for naught when Porthos knocked a cup to the floor. They’d both frozen at the loud sound of it hitting and bouncing along the floor, before looking towards their sleeping friends. Only d’Artagnan had reacted to the noise, but thankfully he’d stayed asleep. They’d managed to escape without any further problems after Aramis took a moment to pray for their friends before leaving their room. 

Once Toutainville was in their sights ahead of them, they breathed a sigh of relief that they’d managed to pull off their escape plan. 

“You realize Athos and d’Artagnan are going to kill us for what we did,” Aramis said. 

“Well…”—Porthos chuckled—“You wanted them to stop being at odds with each other. At least now they can have a common enemy in us.” 

Aramis groaned in dread of what their brothers might do to them in retaliation. 

“Do you think we did the right thing?” Aramis asked after a while. 

“Maybe; maybe not. With us there, they weren’t getting anywhere. Now the stubborn idiots are just going to have to learn the hard way how to talk to each other again.” 

ooooooo 

Porthos and Aramis made the return trip to Paris with no problems, except having to ride through a downpour of rain one afternoon. Captain Tréville had immediately demanded an explanation upon their return, having been surprised to see Aramis instead of Athos. Once the two men outlined what they had done and why, Tréville had commended them on their ingenuity, while at the same time, commiserated with them on the revenge that was sure to come regardless of whether or not d’Artagnan and Athos made any headway on their reconciliation. 

The sickness that had been going through the ranks of the Musketeers had spread to the Red Guards, necessitating those who were still able-bodied to cover even more duty shifts than before. Knowing Aramis would be tempted to help out with the sick, Tréville had ordered Aramis to stay away from the Infirmary, or face some rather unpleasant consequences. The Captain had enough to deal with without having to worry that Aramis and Porthos would also become ill. King Louis had allotted more than enough funds to pay for all the help the sick men would need. 

Days, and then weeks, passed. Much to the relief of everyone, the sickness burned itself out not long after the two men had returned to Paris. Thankfully, no one had died in the outbreak. Aramis and Porthos were amongst the few who did not get sick, though they had nearly exhausted themselves working long hours to help fill in for those who had been ill. 

Aramis prayed for his stubborn, absent friends every day, visiting nearly every church within Paris’s city limits to do so while filling in for his sick brothers-in-arms. He had faith that d’Artagnan would walk again, but he couldn’t help praying for a full restoration of body, mind, and soul for his young friend. He hoped for some form of reconciliation between Athos and d’Artagnan, though Porthos seemed unwilling to accept anything but the two of them being friends and brothers again someday soon. Porthos just wanted his family back together again, and greatly missed the camaraderie the four of them had once shared. 

Finally, after far too long, a courier with a message for Captain Tréville came thundering into the garrison on a horse that had obviously been worked too hard. Not long after the message was delivered, they had been called up to the Captain’s office. After so long without any word, something they had expected, the message in Athos’s handwriting was wonderful to see despite it being extremely succinct: _Returning to Paris_. 

Tréville had laughed at Porthos’s long string of creative invectives regarding the lack of details in the message as well as its author. Aramis wasn’t thrilled with the language, which had taken the Lord’s name in vain, but he’d agreed with the sentiment behind it nonetheless. Each of them would have been suspicious of the lack of detail if they didn’t know the man so well – an economy of words was something quite normal for Athos. 

The extreme lack of details in Athos’s message basically meant they had no idea when they would be seeing their friends again. It had come from Ponteau de Mer, which assuming good traveling conditions, was about five days away from Paris by horse, and they didn’t know how capable of travel d’Artagnan was at this point. They could only hope that their prayers would be answered, and the Gascon would be able to rejoin the ranks of the Musketeers. 

For the time being, it was a matter of waiting and keeping a watch out for their friends’ return. 

ooooooo 

Knowing it would be at least several days before d’Artagnan and Athos would return, Tréville had decided to immediately send Aramis and Porthos out on an overnight mission to keep the two busy. After that, the Captain had mercy upon them and kept them assigned to duties within the city limits, so they could be nearby when their brothers returned. 

Aramis and Porthos had just been coming back from the practice field where they had been trying to temper their impatience for their friends’ return by sparring. They had just entered the main courtyard when two men on horses entered the garrison through the main gate. 

At first, they didn’t realize who the men were, not paying much attention to anything except their desire to get something to quench their thirst. They froze when they looked up and finally recognized exactly who was on the horses. 

Though they had been hoping for the best in regards to d’Artagnan’s legs, Porthos and Aramis were still surprised to see him atop a horse. Looking at Athos and d’Artagnan, it was impossible to discern if their plan had worked or not. There were no indications of whether or not Athos and d’Artagnan had made any progress in reconciling with each other. 

They headed towards their friends when Athos started to dismount from his horse. However, they stopped when they noticed d’Artagnan had remained seated and was looking as if he were waiting for something. Once on the ground, Athos retrieved a cane from behind his saddle and walked over to d’Artagnan, who was slowly and carefully manipulating his right leg over the top of his saddle as if it were dead weight. Athos placed a steadying hand on d’Artagnan’s other leg, before helping the younger man down to the ground. 

Once on the ground, d’Artagnan roughly knocked Athos’s arm away and snatched the cane from the man’s hand. With Athos hovering nearby, d’Artagnan tried to take a step but his legs’ buckled slightly, prompting Aramis and Porthos to rush to his aid. Athos, being in closer proximity, was the one to keep their young brother from falling, though it looked as if the Gascon wished it had been anyone else who had done so. 

Due to the near-fall, and the lack of amiable interaction between d’Artagnan and Athos, Porthos and Aramis felt the worst had happened on all accounts. D’Artagnan had not improved as much as they’d hoped for, likely meaning they’d lose the Gascon as a fellow Musketeer. It also seemed that the two men had not managed to put at least some things behind them to reach even a partial understanding between them. Both men tried to hide the sorrow they were feeling as a result of their observations. 

They had slowed when they’d seen d’Artagnan pull away from Athos and the two start having seemingly harsh, whispered words between them. However, when Aramis and Porthos, having approached their friends with trepidation, were close enough the two men suddenly began laughing. 

Laughing? 

D’Artagnan straightened up from his reliance on his cane and stepped forward to catch both stunned men into a fierce hug, mumbling something about having greatly missed them. Over the Gascon’s shoulders, they saw that Athos was looking smug and had a smile on his face. Realization was swift to come upon them, and they disentangled themselves, pushing d’Artagnan back away from them none too gently and breaking the hug. 

When they saw d’Artagnan had easily recovered his balance, they were torn between joy and anger. 

“You bastards!” Porthos said, having gone for anger. 

“What you just did—” Aramis said. 

“Ain’t right, making us think the worst.” 

“That you couldn’t walk—” 

“And that you still weren’t getting along.” 

“But you can, right? Walk?” 

 “Yes, Aramis, I can walk,” d’Artagnan said, demonstrating his regained mobility. “I have a little trouble now and again, and my back is sore from riding so much, but I’m good.” 

“Our apologies, Porthos, Aramis,” Athos said, “but we wanted to surprise you with d’Artagnan’s good news. We had to improvise when we saw you so soon after our arrival. Please forgive us.” 

“Does this charade mean the two of you are…friends…again?” Aramis asked. 

“It’s a long story,” d’Artagnan said, throwing a look they didn’t understand towards Athos. “Suffice it to say for now that we are getting there.” 

Athos dipped his head in agreement, a slight smile on his face as he said, “Indeed.” 

“It’s about damn time,” Porthos said before gathering them all into a four-way hug. 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Sixty: Brothers 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .  
>  There’s a lot going on in real life right now, which is the reason I’m a day later than normal in posting, so I just wanted to warn you that it will likely be two weeks before I post the next chapter. 
> 
> We’re getting close to the end, so I’ve started thinking about my next Musketeers story. I’ve got a bunch of ideas, and can’t decide which one to choose, so I’m hoping you’ll help me out. After I post the final chapter of this story, I’ll post another which will give you several options to choose from, and you’d vote by reviewing the chapter of your favorite idea. Make sense? More details will be coming. Please don’t leave any prompts in this story’s reviews. Thanks. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	66. Chapter Sixty: Brothers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was going to be the last chapter before the epilogue, but I was wrong.  
> .

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Sixty: Brothers**

Word of their return had quickly spread throughout the garrison. It wasn’t long before other Musketeers had arrived to welcome him and d’Artagnan back, though a good number seemed more curious about the younger man’s current condition than anything else. Apparently, word of d’Artagnan’s injury had spread amongst their fellow brothers-in-arms. 

Though he was also being welcomed back, Athos had decided to step back and out of the way to observe how d’Artagnan was handling all of the attention. D’Artagnan had accepted he was to be tested once again by returning to the garrison, a place that had stopped feeling like home for his friend, but Athos knew it must be a bit overwhelming to be back regardless. His brother was hiding it fairly well, but judging by the concerned looks from both Aramis and Porthos, he was not the only one who could see that something was slightly off with d’Artagnan. 

The majority of the men who had come to greet d’Artagnan seemed genuinely happy to see the younger man. Athos recognized Filleul, Vasseur, and a couple others to whom, according to Porthos and Aramis, he owed a debt for maintaining their support of his brother during the height of d’Artagnan’s suffering. However, he also recognized several Musketeers who had adopted his malicious nickname of ‘Boy,’ and he would have to keep watch to make sure they knew that behavior would no longer be acceptable – not that it ever had been acceptable. 

He still regretted his behavior while an amnesiac, but d’Artagnan’s forgiveness had tempered that regret into a constant reminder of how he should never take his brothers for granted. His gaze shifted until he focused on Aramis and Porthos. His brothers had risked everything by forcing him and d’Artagnan together to try and work out their issues. Athos was thankful, beyond thankful, that it had worked, and owed his two friends a lot – after he and d’Artagnan got their revenge. Tricking Porthos and Aramis into thinking things hadn’t gone to their plan had been satisfying, but it was merely a means to get the two to lower their guard. After all, _la vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid*_. 

Athos sensed a presence behind him and to his right. Turning his head just enough to see the older man out of the corner of his eye, yet still keeping an eye on d’Artagnan, he said, “Captain.” 

“Athos,” Tréville said. “Welcome back. You were missed”—the man gestured towards Aramis and Porthos—“especially by those two. They tried to hide it, but they’ve been worried.” 

“They had more than one cause to be worried.” 

“And now?” 

Athos knew his captain was not referring to d’Artagnan’s recovery. 

“Now things are…much improved between us.” 

“Good. You four… It would’ve been a damn shame if I would’ve had to permanently split you up.” 

Despite knowing being reassigned had been a distinct possibility – and greatly desired while his memories had been gone – just hearing those words made his stomach twist uncomfortably. 

He forced himself to take a deep breath, and as he released it, he said, “There is no longer any need.” 

Captain Tréville stroked his mustaches and smiled before nodding once. “I’ll need you to come up to my office and give your report. We will also need to talk regarding d’Artagnan’s recovery and fitness for duty.” 

Again Athos’s stomach lurched uncomfortably; this time at the idea that his friend might be allowed back on full duty before he was truly ready. He and d’Artagnan had had more than one…discussion regarding readiness for full duty, and what that consisted of, on the way back to Paris. D’Artagnan had called him out regarding being overcautious, and Athos hadn’t denied it, nor had he acknowledged it. Honestly, he had no idea if he was truly acting or thinking in such a manner. 

And if he was, he couldn’t help it. Athos had been there for almost all of it – the setbacks and the progress. He’d witnessed the pain, the falls, the first steps without aid, the first time back on a horse, and more. He just wanted his brother to be ready and able to defend himself and others should the need— 

His Captain interrupted his thoughts. “After that, you and d’Artagnan are off duty for the rest of today and tomorrow.” 

As Captain Tréville had stepped by him and through the small crowd towards d’Artagnan, he said, “Thank you, Sir.” 

It always amazed him how the captain was able to have a path open up in a crowd without the man saying anything. Aramis had jested more than once it was like Moses and the parting of the Red Sea. However his commanding officer did it, Athos was currently thankful for the ability, because d’Artagnan was starting to look a little overwhelmed and seemed to need the space. 

Houdon and a couple others came up to him to welcome him back, but he managed to keep an eye on d’Artagnan while talking to them. Once they left, Athos was able to catch the attention of Porthos, who in turn thumped Aramis on the shoulder. Aramis rubbed at his shoulder as he glared at Porthos, who then gestured in Athos’s direction with his head. Athos tipped his head towards Tréville, who was heading back towards his office, letting them know where he was going to be next. Then, he gestured towards d’Artagnan, causing his two friends’ gazes to shift towards the Gascon. From how their expressions changed, Athos knew they had seen how exhausted d’Artagnan was from traveling. They nodded back and smiled slightly, leaving him feeling relieved that they would cut things short, so d’Artagnan could get some rest. 

Athos grabbed his saddlebags and headed towards Captain Tréville’s office, arriving in time to see the older man sitting down at the desk. While he gave his report, which was not just about their mission, and its conclusion, but also about his and d’Artagnan’s enforced time together, he couldn’t help but feel as if something was missing. It didn’t take him long to realize that is was not some _thing_ that was missing, but rather some _one_ – d’Artagnan. 

The time that had passed as he had given his report had been the longest he and d’Artagnan had been apart in weeks; it felt…odd not to have the younger man close by. Athos knew his friend was with Porthos and Aramis, and that they wouldn’t let any harm come to d’Artagnan, yet he had this irrational urge to want to make sure the Gascon was doing alright. It had become second nature to keep a close eye out for his brother during their time in Saint Sulpice. 

Such careful scrutiny was no longer necessary now that they had returned to Paris, but Athos knew it would take time for him to get used to not wanting to keep an eye out for d’Artagnan every minute of every day. The Gascon deserved, and likely craved, his independence now that a full recovery was essentially a given. It didn’t mean he would stop watching out for d’Artagnan, or stop caring about him, but it would mean he would have to back off some, lest he seem too much like a mother hen. God help him if his other two brothers caught him being too overprotective.   

He was well aware this tendency to be overprotective had ended up influencing the discussion he and the Captain had about d’Artagnan’s readiness to return to full duty. The Gascon would have to be examined by a physician, and observed during training, but it would likely be at least a month before d’Artagnan would be assigned to full duty. At best, the younger man could look forward to light duties in one to two weeks’ time. 

Athos knew d’Artagnan would balk at being sidelined for so long, but he felt it was necessary. Physically, the Gascon wasn’t quite ready for many of the duties performed by a Musketeer. He could stand guard, but if something were to happen, and he had to take action, then d’Artagnan might not be quite up to the task. Emotionally, it would take a little time to get used to being back at the garrison, not worrying about losing all he’d worked for, and having the full support of his closest friends once more. If his friend truly assessed his current condition, then d’Artagnan wouldn’t argue against the restrictions – much. 

ooooooo 

When Athos finally stepped into his room after so many weeks away, it was dark except for the torch light that was filtering in through the open door. It allowed him to see the vague shapes of his furniture, enough to not run into anything, but no other details. In some ways, Athos did not mind his inability to see the current state of his room, unable to recall the exact state he’d left it in. Smelling it was enough at present and enough of a clue as to how tidy his room wasn’t. The air was stale- and dusty-smelling, and there was the stench of cheap wine that had dried up in the open bottles he must have left around the place. 

He set his overstuffed saddlebags down upon his bed, feeling lucky that he had not run into any of his three brothers on the way to his room. One saddlebag was so overstuffed, he was surprised the flap still covered a portion of what filled it. 

At the end of his meeting with Tréville, the Captain had bid him stay for a moment longer… 

_“I have something for you,” Tréville said as he turned towards a chest behind the desk and opened it. Bending over and drawing out a cloth-wrapped bundle, he continued, “It was finished about a week ago. The shop owner refused to hold it more than three days without payment, so”—Tréville handed the bundle over—“I took the liberty. The leathersmith did a fine job.”  
_

_Athos wanted to look at the finished product right then and there, but he managed to resist the temptation. “Captain, thank you for redeeming this when I could not, and for all your help in getting this made in the first place. I will pay you back within the week.”  
_

_“It was my pleasure, Athos,” the Captain said and smiled. “Besides, I cannot have one of my Musketeers wearing something like what I saw downstairs in front of the King.”—the expression turned sour—“I’d never hear the end of it from Cardinal Richelieu.”_

Stepping over to the little stool by his bed, Athos fumbled for the candle he was fairly certain was there. Finding the small nub of one, he lit it and waited for its warm glow to fill the immediate area. He threw back the flap of the overstuffed half of his saddlebags and withdrew the bundle the Captain had given him, setting it on top of his bed. He then moved his saddlebags to the top of the trunk sitting against the wall, so he would not trip over them in the morning, having no desire to unpack at the moment. 

Unable to restrain his curiosity any longer, Athos untied the string holding the cloth-wrapped bundle closed. Sitting down on his bed, he folded back the cloth to expose what lay within. It was indeed a fine job, and exactly to his specifications, though the materials were of slightly finer quality than he’d expected. Given the amount he had to pay back to Tréville, he couldn’t help but suspect the older man had either bargained the price lower or had contributed some funds. His gratitude towards his Captain grew, and he felt lucky to have a commanding officer who cared so much about his men. 

ooooooo 

Two days later at muster, Captain Tréville assigned duty to everyone but d’Artagnan as Athos had expected. Instead, the man ordered d’Artagnan to come up to his office. He, Aramis, and Porthos were ordered to the palace for parade duty, so none of them were around to find out what had been said, though they all had a pretty good idea. He hoped d’Artagnan would not be too discouraged by the restrictions and timeline regarding returning to full duty. 

It was evening before all four of them were able to reconnect. As they entered the garrison, Athos had searched the courtyard for d’Artagnan but could not see him at their usual table or anywhere else nearby. He met eyes with Aramis, who shrugged; it was apparent they’d have to go looking for their friend. 

Jacques had inadvertently managed to save them the trouble of searching for d’Artagnan by mentioning that the Gascon was in the stables. Jacques claimed their horses’ reins and started towards the stables. Entering just after the younger man, they soon saw d’Artagnan was grooming his horse. Their brother was so intent on his task that a cannon could’ve gone off right next to him without disturbing him. 

Athos had an idea about what had caused his friend’s mood, and was just about to hail him to discuss it, when d’Artagnan’s horse suddenly reacted to seeing its stablemates passing. The sound jolted the Gascon out of the intense internal focus on grooming that he’d had. The younger man looked up, and recognizing the animals going into the nearby stalls, he had turned towards the exit only to startle upon seeing the three of them.   

“Boo,” Porthos said with a grin. 

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Very funny.” 

“I thought so,” Aramis said, trying and failing to suppress his own grin. 

In words dripping with sarcasm, d’Artagnan said, “Oh so happy to oblige,” and resumed grooming his horse with his back towards them. 

Athos glared at both Porthos and Aramis before making his way closer to their younger brother, the other two a couple of steps behind him. 

By the time he’d reached the stall, d’Artagnan seemed bound and determined to ignore all three of them. Athos considered and then rejected several possible things to say, having decided they were too much like worthless platitudes. In the end, he’d decided being direct was the best way to go in dealing with what d’Artagnan was going through. 

“What did Captain Tréville say?” Athos asked. 

From the way d’Artagnan’s shoulders tensed up as he brushed his horse’s coat, Athos knew it was going to be an uphill battle to talk the younger man down. 

“I think you already know,” d’Artagnan replied, managing to sound both accusatory and dejected at the same time. 

Apparently, his hope d’Artagnan wouldn’t be discouraged was for naught, if the younger man’s tone of voice was any indication. 

“D’Artagnan…” 

His friend sighed. “You were right, Athos. It’s going to be about a month before I’ll be allowed to return to full duty.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“What else?” Porthos asked. 

“I had to see the physician today before the Captain would discuss anything beyond the idea of light duties.” 

“Today?” Aramis asked, having caught onto d’Artagnan’s wording. 

“Yes; Tréville was kind enough to have pre-arranged for the physician to come by around midday.” 

Aramis took a half-step forward. “And?” 

“And he said that, based on the testimony of my recovery, and how well I’m able to do certain movements, it will be about two weeks before I am allowed to on light duty.” 

D’Artagnan sounded almost angry with himself for not being more fully healed at this point. He looked at Aramis, who tipped his head, indicating he would be the one to try to reason with their friend. 

“D’Artagnan… Your injury was grave. It was so close to your spine. If you’d not also had to deal with an infection…” 

Now it seemed as if Aramis was blaming himself. 

Before he or the Gascon could say anything, Porthos beat them to it. “That wasn’t your fault, Aramis. It was just the way things were.” 

Aramis looked down briefly. When his gaze came back up again, he said, “I know. It’s just—” 

“No just, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said. “Not your fault. Alright?” 

“If the infection was not my fault, then the way it likely set back your recovery, necessitating it taking longer, is not yours either.” 

“Aramis is right,” Athos said. “I saw how hard you worked to get this far even this quickly. Sometimes you pushed your recovery too hard, but you are walking, you are able to wield a sword again. Surely—” 

“I know!” d’Artagnan said, throwing the curry brush he’d been using into a nearby bucket filled with other tools for grooming. “It is more than I would’ve hoped for back when I first had the feeling come back to my legs. I guess… I guess I’m just being greedy.” 

“Nothin’ wrong with that,” Porthos said and laughed. 

D’Artagnan smiled slightly. “I suppose not. But a month…” 

“I know it will be difficult, d’Artagnan, but we”—he gestured to him, Porthos, and Aramis—“will be here for you,” Athos said. 

“Well…” Aramis said, scratching at the beard on his chin, “as much as duty allows anyway.” 

Athos rolled his eyes and bit his tongue to keep him from saying something cutting to Aramis. Now was not the time to remind their brother they could be called up for a mission away from Paris. He hadn’t mentioned to any of them that Tréville had promised he’d do his best to keep them from having to take on missions longer than a few days at a time. 

“What will you be doing until you’re allowed to take on light duties?” 

“No lifting is allowed, so I’m restricted from helping out in the stables other than grooming.” D’Artagnan looked uncomfortable for a moment, and he stepped out of his horse’s stall before he continued speaking. “The, uh, the Captain has actually assigned me to help him out with his administrative duties. Without you here, Athos, he fell quite a bit behind.” 

“Athos?” Porthos said, turning to look at him. 

Athos mentally groaned; he hadn’t wanted the others to know Tréville had often used the skills he’d gained as comte to help with all the paperwork that came about in the running of the garrison. Sometimes, he had the sneaking suspicion the man might be setting him up to be Captain someday. He hoped not. He may be decent at the administrative end of things, but he felt he wasn’t fit to lead anyone. He had to admit it was similar in some respects to running a household and administering his lands. Still, the key difference was that he’d be the one ordering men to their deaths. Perhaps he’d even have to order his friends to their possible deaths, something which had him feeling sick to his stomach. 

“Something you want to tell us?” Aramis asked. 

“I have good handwriting?” Athos replied, not wanting to explain further, since this whole scene was about d’Artagnan, not him. 

D’Artagnan chuckled. “Handwriting… Right. Not sure how the Captain got the idea I had good handwriting.” 

Aramis lightly backhanded Porthos’s chest. “It’s better than his.” 

“Oi!” 

“Well, it’s true,” Aramis said, digging the hole for himself deeper. 

D’Artagnan shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t know about that, but it’s not the best.” 

"You’ll be fine,” Athos said. “It won’t be boring.” At d’Artagnan’s look of disbelief, he added. “Tréville tends to mumble when he’s doing paperwork. I don’t think he realizes it either. He can be quite”—he gestured vaguely—“expressive about certain things, certain people.” 

“That at least will be interesting,” d’Artagnan said, putting his hands on his hips and sighing as if he still anticipated he was going to be extremely bored. 

“What else?” Porthos asked. 

“Administrative duty for at least a week, and I’m only allowed to do light training with no heavy sparring. From there, more duties will be added on as my back continues to heal.” 

Athos stepped forward to put his hands on d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “I know this is not what you wanted, but you can endure this. You’ll be back with us permanently before you know it.” 

“Permanently?” d’Artagnan asked, sounding as if he hadn’t dared to believe such a thing was possible before now. 

Athos nodded, and knew the others were doing the same. He looked d’Artagnan straight in the eyes to convey his promise that what he was about to say was the truth and that no other outcome would be acceptable. “Permanently.” 

D’Artagnan closed his eyes for a moment, his face scrunching up with emotion. Then, he took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and nodded his acceptance of Athos’s promise. 

Athos smiled his approval, lightly clapping d’Artagnan’s shoulders before stepping back a couple of steps. 

“Don’t worry, Brother, you can’t get rid of us that easily,” Porthos said.   

“Or ever,” Aramis added. 

D’Artagnan’s eyes began to shine bright from unshed tears. “Thank you. That means a lot.” 

Athos could feel that it meant more than a lot to d’Artagnan. That affirmation of his place amongst them meant everything to his younger brother, and he knew it would sustain d’Artagnan thought to the end. 

“Well, Brothers. Shall we retire to the nearest tavern and get something to eat?” 

“You buyin’?” Porthos asked. 

“It _is_ a celebration,” Aramis added as all four of them headed out of the stables. 

Athos put an arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders in a brief half-hug before letting go. 

“It is indeed.” 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Sixty-one:  The Beginning of the End   

**ooooooo**

 

 **Story/History Notes :**

“ ** _La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid_ ”:** Translation into French of “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Can also be translated as: “Revenge is a dish that is eaten cold.” I looked into the origin of the phrase but couldn’t find a definite answer. However, the first use in English seems to be in the 1846 translation from French of _Mathilde: Mémories d’une juene femme_ , written about 1841 by Eugène Sue – “And then _revenge is very good eaten cold_ , as the vulgar say.”  I prefer to think of it as an old Klingon proverb.    ;o) **  
**

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hate to say this, but it’s likely going to be another two weeks before the next chapter comes out. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing and help with the chapter title. Mistakes are a part of life, so if there are any remaining ones – that’s life. :o)


	67. Chapter Sixty-one: The Beginning of the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the extra delay between chapters.

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Sixty-one: The Beginning of the End**

_Twelve days later…_

Riding back from the southernmost outskirts of Paris with Porthos, Athos’s thoughts kept turning towards their young brother. 

Today was the first day that d’Artagnan would be allowed to spar more aggressively than in previous weeks. Before they’d returned to Paris, he and d’Artagnan would carefully spar, basically going through the motions, rather than truly engaging one another. Since they’d returned, their bouts had become less cautious, and their blades had connected more often, as d’Artagnan continued to regain strength and stamina. 

D’Artagnan had made steady progress in the past twelve days. Athos had seen more and more of the younger man’s natural, raw grace returning, more flexibility over all, and fewer stumbles when overly tired. The one thing that still truly seemed a work in progress was stamina, but he knew that would come in time and with d’Artagnan’s zealous determination. 

He, Aramis, and Porthos had been the ones d’Artagnan had been primarily training with the past almost two weeks, occasionally inviting certain other Musketeers to help out when they were away from the garrison. D’Artagnan had also been prohibited from any hand-to-hand combat which would result in any contact to his back or overly strain his lower back muscles. However, Porthos had managed to find a way to continue hand-to-hand training regardless of the restrictions, going through the mechanics of the moves and stopping short of anything that could potentially hurt d’Artagnan. Aramis had found a way, through improving their brother’s aim with a musket and other firearms, to engage the back muscles without overworking them. Athos had seen this as Aramis and Porthos’s way of, not only helping with the Gascon’s recovery, but to also reconnect with him as friends and brothers-in-arms. From how their interactions had become more relaxed as time had passed, it was clear that their time together was mutually beneficial. 

The physician had been impressed by d’Artagnan’s rate of recovery thus far, allowing the restriction against aggressive or overly-strenuous sparring to be lifted a couple of days early. Athos had been looking forward to once again sparring like they used to, but duty had called and he and Porthos had answered. It seemed ludicrous to be disappointed he would not be the first one to spar with d’Artagnan when his friend wasn’t under restriction, but he couldn’t seem to help it. 

Ever since he had realized the younger man had talent with a sword, they had started sparring against each other on a regular basis. As time had gone by, and the Gascon’s skills had improved, he had taken to holding himself back less and less, something he had to do with the majority of the other Musketeers in order to avoid injuring them. After so long, he had been looking forward to being able to spar without constraint. 

Instead, he’d had to cede that honor to Aramis, who had been asked to stay behind by Captain Tréville to help a couple of new recruits with their aim. After thinking none of them would be there for this next important step in d’Artagnan’s recovery, Athos had been relieved at least one of the three of them would be there for it. When Aramis found out he would be staying behind at the garrison, and would be the first d’Artagnan would spar with sans limits, the man had begun gloating. That gloating had very quickly ceased; it was amazing what a couple of near-murderous glares from him and Porthos could do.  

If he hadn’t been specifically requested for this mission, then he likely would’ve been the one to stay behind at the garrison. All recruits needed help with their aim, but he knew that having Aramis stay behind was the Captain’s way of making sure d’Artagnan was not left without their support for this next stepping stone towards complete, physical recovery. 

Thinking of the Captain’s support for his men had pointed his wandering thoughts towards what the man had said regarding d’Artagnan’s help with the administrative duties that had been assigned. Tréville had mentioned more than once how pleased he’d been with d’Artagnan’s attentiveness to detail despite having no interest in the work, and how quickly he had understood what needed to be done. They’d both presumed it was due to the younger man’s past life as the son of a gentlemen landowner. D’Artagnan hadn’t said much one way or the other about the duty he’d been given, making Athos wonder if it didn’t remind the Gascon of his father’s loss as well as the loss of his farm. It was probably for the best that the Captain had mostly caught up with that aspect of his work and would be expecting his help once again. 

From the position of the sun, Athos knew that there was a more than fair chance that sword training had begun and that Aramis and d’Ar— 

From his left, Porthos had suddenly begun chuckling, intruding upon his thoughts. 

He knew he was going to regret saying something, but… “Pray tell me what you find so humorous.” 

“You,” Porthos said as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. “I can practically hear you thinkin’ about d’Artagnan from here.”—Porthos laughed again—“You’ve been moody all day. I know you’re disappointed, but it’s not as if you’re not going to be the one he practices with most often. Today’s likely the only chance others will get for a long while to properly go up against him.” 

Athos nearly sprained something while trying to keep his eyes from rolling at Porthos’s words – even if they were true. Still, he wasn’t going to dignify them with any verbal response. Hopefully, his silence would be enough to express his displeasure. 

It wasn’t; Porthos only chuckled yet again, and this time Athos did allow himself the eye roll but still remained silent. 

He couldn’t help but hope that they would arrive back at the garrison in time for them to get his – their – chance at sparring with d’Artagnan before the younger man overtaxed himself. 

ooooooo 

They arrived at the garrison much later than Athos would’ve liked, walking and not riding through the gate. Porthos’s horse had pulled up lame due to it stepping into a hole where a cobblestone had been missing. The city had many damaged or missing cobblestones, and usually they were easily avoidable, but in this instance Porthos had just been unlucky. 

Athos tried not to let his frustration with the situation show, knowing this delay would likely have him missing out on practicing with d’Artagnan today, but it was impossible to keep it hidden from Porthos. He knew that Porthos had also been looking forward to sparring with d’Artagnan, and Athos couldn’t help but curse their lack of good fortune. 

After determining that riding the rest of the way would be impossible, Porthos had generously begun to suggest that he should go on ahead to the garrison, but Athos would not let his friend finish that thought. He refused to leave his brother walk back alone, aware that the rift between the Musketeers and the Red Guard had only widened in the past few months. There had been some off-duty fights, but there was always a chance of an escalation when least expected, so he would stay with Porthos. Besides, d’Artagnan knew he and Porthos might not be back until late in the afternoon, and Aramis would be around for their young brother. 

Leading their horses through the garrison’s main gate, Athos caught a glimpse of several Musketeers through the archway leading out to the practice field. They were sparring on the far side of the field, and he wondered if Aramis and d’Artagnan were out there as well. Jacques took the reins of their horses, and Porthos had lagged behind to explain about his horse’s injury. Athos stopped to wait for Porthos, but the other man gestured for him to go on and not wait. Athos nodded his thanks, and continued on towards the practice field. 

As he approached, Athos spotted Daubigny come into view through the archway. The Musketeer, who was losing ground at the moment, was defending himself against an opponent Athos could not yet see. Daubigny had never been a Musketeer with whom he’d had any kind of rapport; the stocky man was an elitist, and always treated anyone not from a noble background as dirt to be trod upon. 

Athos was well aware of the disdain the man had for d’Artagnan, who had only ever treated Daubigny with gentlemanly respect. The older man had been one of the earliest adopters of the horrid nickname he’d bestowed upon d’Artagnan. Athos was hoping Daubigny had caught on to the fact that he no longer had any issues with the Gascon and had stopped calling d’Artagnan “Boy.” 

A sudden feeling of anxiety stole over him, making him want to hurry towards the practice field. As he walked, he noticed Daubigny was saying something, likely to his opponent, that he was unable to hear. The stocky Musketeer was well-known for his discourteous manner of speaking, and he could easily imagine what crass words were coming out of the man’s mouth. 

When he stepped through the arch, his stomach suddenly felt like it had dropped straight down into his feet. Daubigny’s opponent was d’Artagnan, and it was apparent the man’s most recent words had affected his brother. Along with the signs of tiredness d’Artagnan was exhibiting, Athos could also see that his friend had a troubled look on his face, though he was trying to hide that fact. 

Where was Aramis? His friend was supposed to watch over d’Artagnan, be the first one to spar with d’Artagnan. Daubigny wasn’t someone he would’ve allowed his friend to go up against on the first day d’Artagnan was permitted to go full out while sparring.     

It didn’t take long for him to spot Aramis, who was leaning against a nearby tree, watching d’Artagnan and Daubigny’s bout with great concentration as well as consternation. Athos’s worry for his young brother only ratcheted up higher, despite knowing Daubigny would not intentionally hurt another Musketeer regardless of their status. 

He went to stand next to Aramis, who didn’t seem to notice his presence. After taking a calming breath, Athos said, “Aramis.” 

Aramis startled slightly, his friend’s gaze only briefly leaving the bout to look at him, before turning back to watch. “It could not be helped.” 

Athos could see that Daubigny was regaining ground, and beginning to force d’Artagnan backwards. It would not be long until the match was over. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

Aramis grimaced. “It would be easier to tell you what didn’t happen. Needless to say, I was delayed and could not prevent this.” 

Athos tipped his head towards the two sparring nearby. “Is this his first bout?” 

“No; his second opponent though. Luckily, the first was with Vasseur*. They fought twice, and both bouts were a draw.” 

“Normally, d’Artagnan would be able to win such a match.” 

“Normally, but it’s his first day back at this level. As I entered the practice yard, one of the others was leaving. He said that d’Artagnan was quite pleased it was a draw, as if he’d expected from the beginning to lose.” 

“How were you not his second opponent?” 

“I arrived just as Daubigny and d’Artagnan had saluted each other before beginning to spar.” 

Athos crossed his arms over his chest. “Unfortunate.” 

“Yes, quite, but I’ve been keeping watch. D’Artagnan has been doing well.” 

“He’s tiring.” Being around so much at the beginning of the younger man’s recovery had taught him all of d’Artagnan’s tells. 

“True, but he’s been holding his own against one of the better swordsmen of the regiment.”—Aramis quirked a brief smile.—“Not as good as us, of course.” 

Just as Aramis had finished speaking, Daubigny swiped the flat of his sword’s blade towards d’Artagnan’s legs, causing the Gascon to jump over it in order to avoid the blade lest he gain a nasty bruise as a souvenir. Unfortunately, due to d’Artagnan’s growing fatigue, and an uneven bit of ground, he landed badly. The Gascon was distracted just long enough for Daubigny to win the bout. 

Athos quietly seethed as he watched Daubigny look triumphantly down upon the younger man as if he’d just won a heroic battle, instead of purposely going after the weakness of a fellow Musketeer who was still recovering from a serious injury. Daubigny then laughed and backed away from d’Artagnan, not lending a hand to help his brother Musketeer to stand. Aramis laid a hand on his forearm, gently restraining him as the snooty Musketeer said something he was not able to hear. D’Artagnan’s expression became downcast before he shook his head in the negative. Athos started to move forward, but Aramis prevented him from taking more than a step. 

Athos quickly glared at Aramis and lifted an eyebrow in askance, knowing his friend had also noticed the sudden downturn of d’Artagnan’s demeanor. 

“Wait,” Aramis said, even as they continued to watch the exchange between the two men. 

Daubigny sneered and started to turn away, stopping for a moment to sheath both of his weapons. D’Artagnan sheathed his sword, and was about to sheath his main gauche when Daubigny turned back. 

“Giving up already? Pathetic.” Daubigny began walking away, but in a louder voice called over his shoulder, “Better luck next time, _Boy_.” 

When he saw d’Artagnan wince at the despised nickname after such a rude end to the sparring session, Athos’s anger erupted with a force rival to that of Mount Vesuvius* back when it destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum. His usual motto of _head over heart_ was engulfed in flames and swiftly reduced to ash. 

The anger buzzed inside his head like a swarm of bees; nothing about himself, his actions or his thoughts, seemed to be a part of him. He watched what happened as though he was outside of his own body, barely pausing to think he might be overreacting to Daubigny’s words and deciding it did not matter. He would not allow that slur to live on any longer, not after all the pain it had already caused. 

Suddenly his sword was in his hand, and he was requesting Daubigny spar with him. A tugging sensation on his arm was ignored and easily evaded. Only later would he find out that Aramis had briefly tried to hold him back in fear of Daubigny’s, and subsequently his life had he killed the man. Only later would he find out that the request to spar had been couched in simple terms – _You will spar with me*_ – yet carried with it the distinct impression that refusing would not be the healthiest of ideas. 

When he’d called out Daubigny, he had noticed a satisfactory flash of fear in the stocky man’s eyes. Athos had also noticed how d’Artagnan’s attention had snapped to focus upon him, eyes widening, and sporting an odd expression upon his face.  It gave him momentary pause, but the angry buzzing in his head was difficult to ignore. 

Without a word, and with only the barest of salutes, he and Daubigny had begun to spar. With very little effort, Athos had the snooty man in a bind that couldn’t be escaped unless Daubigny had suddenly decided death was a good way to end his day. 

Athos saw the fear in Daubigny’s eyes, the dread that he was about to be killed. Yet despite his anger, Athos had absolutely no intention of killing the man, though he had been very briefly tempted; this man was not worth losing his life over. 

Instead, Athos added a bit of pressure, which put more strain upon Daubigny’s sword arm, leaned in close to the man’s ear, and very quietly said, “You will _not_ use that name again.”  

He heard a voice calling his name and ignored it. Athos moved so that he could lock eyes with Daubigny. “Do you—?” 

“—thos!” d’Artagnan’s said, finally breaking through his anger. His friend had put a hand on his shoulder, adding more and more pressure. “Let. It. Go. _I_ have. Do you understand what I’m saying, Athos? Let it go… Please.” 

D’Artagnan’s words, as well as the sudden lack of touch when the younger man let go of his shoulder, are like a wave of cold water, managing to extinguish the burning, buzzing anger that had overtaken him. 

Those five words – _Let it go. I have._ – were enough to get him to release Daubigny, who landed awkwardly on his backside as a result. 

They were only five words, but for him – and for d’Artagnan – they had a much deeper meaning. 

These simple, yet significant words meant that it was over. Not only does he have forgiveness from d’Artagnan, but now Athos knows that his brother has let go of all of the hurt he had caused while an amnesiac. The words mean they are reconciled. 

Time flowed for God only knew how long, but it was as if the universe had stopped for him and d’Artagnan. He hardly registered when Aramis and Porthos, who had seemingly materialized out of nowhere, were leading Daubigny away. He barely comprehended that Aramis and Porthos had said anything to Daubigny as the three men walked away, though the words would come back to him later that night:  

_“If I were you, I’d listen to Athos. You can be a cautionary tale to others.”  
_

_“Doesn’t that sound like fun?”_

He and d’Artagnan locked eyes. He understood what his brother had said, but a part of him needed to be absolutely certain. 

Athos sheathed his sword, and asked, “Truly?” 

Without any hesitation, d’Artagnan replied, “Yes.” 

His knees felt a little weak as a result of his brother’s answer. Once upon a time, d’Artagnan had said he might never be able to let go* of what had happened. He did not know why what had just happened had led to d’Artagnan finally being able to let go of all the pain between them, to let it no longer have sway over him. It was entirely possible it had not been that particular moment with Daubigny, but instead the culmination of many moments, which had let to this point in time. 

Regardless, he was thankful for them. Regardless of how or why, it was now over. The weight of the past had been lifted up off of his and d’Artagnan’s shoulders, though the memories and the lessons they had learned would remain forever. They would finally be able to move forward together. 

D’Artagnan threw an arm around Athos’s shoulders. “But I do appreciate my big brother coming to my rescue – even if it was _not_ needed.” 

“I beg to differ,” Aramis said, having approached without either of them seeing him. 

Porthos was not far behind. “Me as well.” His brother made a gesture meant to encompass all the nearby Musketeers. “Brothers are always needed. Whether it’s our brother Musketeers or family, we protect each other, interfere where we’re _not_ needed”—Porthos chuckled—“though I think big brother Athos went a little overboard just now.” 

They started walking off the practice field, and headed towards their usual table in the courtyard. 

D’Artagnan squeezed his shoulder once, smiled, and then let his arm fall away. “Just a little. For the briefest moment, I thought you were going to run Daubigny through.” 

“That was the point,” Athos said, letting his voice be as deadpan as possible. 

D’Artagnan grinned. “And you made it _very_ clear.” The Gascon tipped his head towards Porthos and Aramis. “With a little help from our brothers, I think Daubigny will think twice about his words from now on.” 

“I think some others will take up that habit as well,” Aramis added. 

“Thank you – all of you. It means a great deal to me.” 

“It was time,” Athos said, also referring to d’Artagnan’s earlier assertion that they were now fully reconciled. 

Athos and his younger brother shared a look before d’Artagnan said, “Yes, it was.” 

ooooooo 

_To be continued_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Sixty-two: The End. 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**_Vasseur_ : **Originally mentioned in “Hard Lesson,” Chapter 4 of Celticgal1041’s “Hard Lessons”, He was the one who invited d’Artagnan out to a tavern with other fellow Musketeers. Other mentions:  “Chapter Twenty-seven: Actions” and “Chapter Sixty: Brothers.” 

**“ _…Mount Vesuvius back when it destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum._ ”:** Mount Vesuvius is best known for the eruption occurring in August of A.D. 79, which destroyed Pompeii and Herculaneum, ending the lives of approximately 30,000 people. It is located on the west coast of Italy near Naples, and is the only active volcano in mainland Europe. In A.D. 79’s eruption, Pompeii was enveloped by a cloud of volcanic gases and debris that rolled down Vesuvius’ slopes, while Herculaneum was engulfed by a wall of volcanic mud, which obliterated the town. Mt. Vesuvius has erupted more than 50 times, with its last major eruption taking place in 1944. 

**_“You will spar with me_ ”:**  Mirrors Athos’s request to d’Artagnan in “Chapter Fifteen: Training Day.” 

**_“…d’Artagnan had said he might never be able to let go of what had happened.”_ :**  References “Chapter Fifty: After Much Deliberation, Part Two,” where d’Artagnan states to Athos: “…I am no longer going to hold it all against you. However, I think it will be a while before I can forget, _let go of what happened_.” (Italics added for this note.) 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters to go. If anyone is still keeping track, then I’m sure you can guess what it will be about. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	68. Chapter Sixty-two: The End

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Sixty-two: The End**

_Several days later…_

Athos was lounging upon his bed, resting after having finished his duties for the day. He’d decided to read a few pages of the next volume of Marcus Aurelius’ _Meditations_ , trying to finish it before d’Artagnan was ready to borrow it. Once they had returned to Paris, d’Artagnan had asked if he could borrow and read the remaining volumes after finding he enjoyed the one Athos had with him on their mission to Normandy. He’d been attempting to read ahead so his memory would be refreshed when he and d’Artagnan discussed their contents over dinner. Finding the time to read was never easy, but he managed here and there. He knew he would have to stop soon to meet up with his friends for the evening meal. 

A knock on his door startled him out of his contemplation of Aurelius’ words. He sat up, wincing at the loud creaking sound his bed made, noted his place in his book, and set it down. 

As he stood, he said, “Enter.” 

The door opened and d’Artagnan stepped into the room. His friend’s eyes quickly darted around the room, stopping briefly at the book lying on the bed. 

“My apologies for disturbing you, Athos.”—d’Artagnan held up a book—“I just wanted to return this to you. Maybe borrow the next volume?” 

“The next is the volume I had with me in Saint Sulpice.” 

“Ah,” said d’Artagnan with a grimace on his face “Um, perhaps the one after that then. I think I practically have that other one memorized by now.” 

Athos smiled slightly, realizing he probably had that volume memorized as well. “I’m currently reading it, but you may borrow it when I’m finished. Maybe tomorrow or the next day?” 

“Sounds good. Thank you.” D’Artagnan handed the book to Athos, and started to leave. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?” 

Since he’d picked up the doublet he’d had made to replace d’Artagnan’s damaged and badly-repaired one from Captain Tréville, Athos had wanted to give it to the younger man, but the timing had never seemed right. He felt the gift would not be perceived well given the state of their reconciliation at the time. To some eyes, it might have seemed like an inducement to do so before d’Artagnan was truly ready – if the Gascon would ever be ready. If he and his young friend had never fully reconciled, then he would’ve enlisted his other brothers, along with the Captain, to give it to d’Artagnan as a gift for some occasion or another. 

Even after the incident in the practice yard, Athos had still felt the timing wasn’t quite right, and he hadn’t been able to determine why. Perhaps it was the fact that the two of them had barely been alone together since they had returned to Paris. Unless he, Porthos, and Aramis had been called away on a mission, the four of them had been having dinner together every evening. They had generally been spending a lot of time in each other’s company, making up for lost time as well as continuing to help with d’Artagnan’s readiness to return to full duty. Thus, it was rare for the two of them to spend any time together that didn’t also include their other two brothers. 

Before he knew what he was doing, he said, “D’Artagnan, wait!” 

When the younger man turned, Athos indicated that he should come back into the room and shut the door. D’Artagnan’s gaze went from expectant to confused. 

“Athos, what is it?” 

He wasn’t sure if this was truly the right time, but couldn’t think of anything else to say to explain why he wanted d’Artagnan to remain in the room. Instead, without saying anything, he went to the large trunk against the wall, and pulled out a cloth bundle. 

When he turned to face d’Artagnan once more, he noticed his friend’s expression had morphed to one of curiosity tinged with worry for him. 

Athos handed the bundle to d’Artagnan. “Open it.” 

D’Artagnan took the bundle from him and moved towards the chest of drawers opposite the trunk, setting it on top in order to open it. His friend untied the string, and cast aside the cloth wrapping, only to go completely still when the doublet was revealed.   

For the longest moment, there was no other reaction to his gift. Then, just as Athos was about ready to call the gift a mistake, apologize, and snatch it away, d’Artagnan lightly ran the fingers of his right hand over the front of the new doublet. As if he were questioning whether or not he was seeing things, his friend placed his other hand on the doublet he was currently wearing. 

D’Artagnan reached out and picked up the doublet near the collar, and giving it a slight shake, the garment unfolded itself. The Gascon turned the doublet this way and that, looking at it from every angle before he lowered it back down, bowed his head, and sighed. 

Athos knew what was coming before d’Artagnan had even said the words. 

D’Artagnan folded the doublet in half lengthwise and then again before setting it down. “Athos, I…” D’Artagnan turned to face him and placed his hand on the garment. “I cannot accept this.” 

“Please take it. It’s my fault that you needed a new one in the first place. Though I know it can never fully be repaid, I wanted to try and repay the debt I owe you for saving my life.” 

“Any debt you may have had was more than repaid in Saint Sulpice when you helped me with my recovery.” 

“You know as well as I do, that our brothers ensured that we’d be spending that time together whether or not we liked it at the time.” 

“I’ve definitely not forgotten that, Athos, but I didn’t save your life to curry favor or to get a reward. I did it because you were about to be shot and I couldn’t bear to let you – or either of the others, for that matter – die if I could stop it.” 

“Then, how about you accept it as a gift?” 

“I—” 

“Please, d’Artagnan. You would actually be doing me a favor. That _thing_ you’re wearing now is an affront to, not only my eyes, but any reputable leathersmith’s. I’m surprised you haven’t had one keel over in fright and disgust as you’ve walked passed them.” 

D’Artagnan laughed. “Fine; I’ll accept it. I wouldn’t want to cause any more unnecessary deaths; there’s a dearth of fine leathersmiths as it is.” 

He smiled at the delivery of the too-true comment, and wondered at how relatively easy it had been to get the younger man to accept the gift. Perhaps d’Artagnan hadn’t been able to stand the way the old one looked either. Yet, Athos could tell his friend was still having doubts about accepting the doublet. 

“Athos, you shouldn’t have spent so much on this. It’s of much finer quality than what I’m wearing.” 

“Though he did not say, I believe you have Captain Tréville to thank for that. I asked him to help me with ordering an exact duplicate to be made, yet when I first saw it, I realized it was made out of much finer-quality leather. However, the price I paid was less than it should’ve been.” 

“Then, I need to thank the Captain for his contribution.” 

“If you like, but I don’t think he will admit to his part. That _thing_ you’re wearing is an affront to his eyes as well. You’re saving him the embarrassment of you appearing in front of the King like that, not to mention you’ll be saving him from the Cardinal’s derision.” He paused and scratched his beard. “How about we leave a bottle of something decent for him on his desk?” 

“We?” Athos nodded, and could see his friend was mulling over the idea, if it could be considered charity. Running a hand over the leather once more, d’Artagnan nodded and said, “Good idea.” 

He pointed to the new doublet. “Are you going to stare at it all night, or are you going to try it on?” 

Athos was normally a patient man, but in this case, he thought he’d been patient long enough to see how well the new garment looked on his friend. 

D’Artagnan grinned, and then stepped forward to envelop him in a hug. “Thank you, Athos.” 

The words were simple, but the emotions infused into every syllable, as well as the hug, told him so much more. 

He squeezed hard for a second, and said, “You’re welcome, brother.” Then, he clapped d’Artagnan’s back a couple of times, and stepped back out of the hug, hoping his own simple words and actions had filled in the gap that neither seemed able to fill. 

Athos cleared his throat of some of the emotion that had become lodged there. “Try it on.” 

D’Artagnan’s expression had started increasing in excitement with every passing moment, as the younger man untied the stays of his now-former doublet and took it off. The Gascon handed the garment to him and turned to pick up the new one. As d’Artagnan did that, Athos removed from the old doublet the pauldron, which had so far served the younger man well. Athos smiled when he ran his finger over two of the nicks in the leather that he and Porthos had added back when it was new, remembering how vexed his brother had been at the time of their addition. 

By the time he had looked back up again, d’Artagnan’s newly adorned back was to him. The current view was already a vast improvement, given how hideous that botched repair job had been. He had been thankful he’d only rarely had to look upon that horrid sight. Never again seeing it would be preferred, but the old garment would still be useful as a backup as well as for training.  

From what he could tell, the fit was perfect. Given the quality of the materials and workmanship, he’d had no doubt, but to see confirmation of that fact with his own eyes was a relief. Now he only had to wait upon d’Artagnan’s reaction to the garment. 

When d’Artagnan finally turned to face him, his brother’s smile was nearly blinding. He couldn’t help but smile in return. 

D’Artagnan held his arms out at his sides. “Well?” 

Athos made a show of it, including signaling for d’Artagnan to turn in a full circle to see the garment from all sides. 

With a straight face, he then shrugged, and said. “It’ll do.” 

“Do?” D’Artagnan looked down at himself, checking that the stays were tied. “What’s wrong with it?” 

“It’s missing something.” Athos held up d’Artagnan’s pauldron. 

His brother rolled his eyes. “Right.” Holding out his right arm, d’Artagnan said, “Will you do me the honor?” 

Athos smiled slightly, and stepped forward in order to slip the pauldron up d’Artagnan’s arm. He adjusted it so that it was comfortably settled on his friend’s shoulder before buckling it securely into place.   

Their eyes meet and Athos knew they were both thinking of the first time he’d done this. As he’d done then, he did now and clapped d’Artagnan on the back once before taking a couple of steps backward. 

D’Artagnan held his arms out once again. “Now what do you think?” 

Athos couldn’t help but remember when he and Porthos had been helping d’Artagnan break in his uniform, whether the younger man had liked it or not. 

The thought must have clearly showed on his face, because d’Artagnan’s expression became wary. “Should I even bother to ask you and the others to mind this uniform?*” 

“It’s too shiny, too new. Like your mum’s dressed you.” 

“Even if that _mum_ has a beard?” 

Athos couldn’t help the laugh that suddenly escaped him. “Just so.” He moved to grab his weapons belt and put it on. “We should join the others. They’ll be wondering where we are.” 

D’Artagnan nodded his agreement, and then folded up the old doublet, wrapping it up in the cloth the new one had come in. Athos made the assumption that they’d be stopping by d’Artagnan’s room to drop the bundle off, and idly wondered how long it would take their brothers to notice the new doublet. 

Athos opened the door of his room and gestured for d’Artagnan to take the lead. 

Stepping through the doorway, d’Artagnan said, “I’ve been thinking.” 

He closed his door as he followed his brother. “About?” 

“About a way to get Aramis and Porthos back for their dirty trick back in Saint Sulpice. It occurred to me that…” 

ooooooo 

_To be concluded_ **  
**

**Next time** : Chapter Sixty-three: Epilogue, aka The Revenge 

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Note :**

**“ _…mind this uniform?” … “It’s too shiny, too new. Like your mum’s dressed you_.”:** Inspired by or directly quoted from episode 1.09, “Knight Takes Queen”, written by Peter McKenna. 

**ooooooo**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go. 
> 
> Many thanks to Celiticgal1041 for proofing this chapter for me. Remaining mistakes are my fault.


	69. Chapter Sixty-three: Epilogue, aka The Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter. I hope it was worth the wait. :o)
> 
> **Warning** Various bodily functions being described in various ways in this chapter.

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Sixty-three: Epilogue, aka The Revenge**

D’Artagnan and Athos had entered the main courtyard at almost at the same time, and a little later than either had intended despite their best efforts. As they broke their fast, they kept an eye out for their brothers, but Porthos and Aramis had yet to arrive. 

At one point, they had discussed going to look for their friends, but there was just not enough time before muster to do so. They had last seen Aramis and Porthos as they had escorted the two men to their rooms, and knew their absence was likely due to having slept in much longer than intended. D’Artagnan hoped the two men hadn’t forgotten how important it was to be on time to muster on this particular day. 

Knowing the Captain tended to keep a surreptitious eye out on the proceedings in the main courtyard below his office, he and Athos went to stand amongst the other Musketeers who had arrived early to muster. D’Artagnan pulled Athos towards the back of the small group, in hopes Porthos and Aramis’s absence would not be noticed as quickly. From Athos’s arched eyebrow, he’d known that his friend also thought the gesture was futile, but in his mind it was still worth a try. Besides, though the two of them had made it to muster on time, he knew they were both not looking their best after the night they’d had. 

The previous night, d’Artagnan and his three brothers had gone out to a tavern to celebrate the long-awaited good news that he was being allowed to return to full duty. Originally, his return was to have been several days hence, but with the King throwing a large soirée in celebration of his birthday* the next day, all Musketeers in the immediate region were needed for security and escort duty, as well as several other less-than-pleasant tasks meant to make a good impression on the guests. 

Once the celebration had been announced, d’Artagnan had vacillated over whether or not to immediately state his case to Captain Tréville about returning to full duty ahead of the original timetable that had been set for him. At the time of the announcement, he’d decided it was too soon to inquire about a change, despite knowing every able-bodied man would be needed. Instead, he’d bided his time and had increased his training until he felt the Captain might be more receptive towards his request. However, before he could take the issue to Tréville, the Captain had asked to see him about it instead.   

Apprehensive at first that he would be completely side-lined, or relegated to some largely meaningless task, d’Artagnan had been greatly surprised to be informed that he would be allowed to go back on full duty – as long as the physician gave his permission after a final check. Apparently, in light of every able-bodied man being needed, the Captain had already discussed the idea of whether d’Artagnan could be allowed back several days early with the garrison’s physician. 

Upon hearing that news, d’Artagnan had to work hard to keep his delight in check and maintain a countenance associated with the King’s elite guard. However, in his mind, he was practically jumping for joy, something he was certain the Captain saw regardless, if the amused gleam in the man’s eye was anything to go by. 

While waiting for the physician to arrive, Tréville had given him permission to inform his brothers about the good news. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis’s reaction was not quite what he had expected. To say it was restrained would be an understatement. They’d looked at each other for a moment before Aramis nodded and had gone off towards the Captain’s office. While he still wasn’t completely fluent in the silent communication that went on between the older men, d’Artagnan was still able to reasonably guess what they had been saying to each other, and rolled his eyes as a result. Apparently, they would not be happy with the physician’s report and wanted Aramis to be involved. 

“Do you not trust the physician?” d’Artagnan had asked. 

“Of course we do, we just trust Aramis more,” Porthos said and grinned.

When even that didn’t garner a change of expression from Athos, d’Artagnan asked, “You don’t think I’m ready, do you?” 

“That is not up to me.” 

“I know it’s not, Athos,” d’Artagnan said, raising his voice slightly in his frustration with the non-answer. “I just want to know what you think.” 

“I do not believe I can be truly objective on this matter.”—Athos sighed—“My first instinct is that you’re not ready despite the evidence of my own eyes to the contrary these past few days.” 

“We almost lost you not so long ago, brother.”  

D’Artagnan nodded in agreement of Porthos’s words. How could he not? Yet, there was a truth the two men had yet to realize. “The same is true for any one of us every time we pass through those gates. These past weeks, every time you left on a mission without me, I wondered if you would come back alive, but I had to let you go anyway. Duty and honor had to come first.” 

“When did you get so wise?” Porthos asked. 

“Around the same time I decided to become friends with three loyal, insane, overprotective men.” 

“He knows us _so_ well.” They turned to see Aramis, who had sounded proud of how he’d been described, walking towards them. 

“Or like knows like,” Athos said, causing Porthos to chuckle. 

“That too,” Aramis said and grinned. Pointing over his shoulder back towards Tréville’s office, he continued, “The Captain said he was fine with me being there for the exam.” 

D’Artagnan crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t I get a say?” 

As one, his friends said, “No.” 

ooooooo 

After what he had considered an overly-thorough, bordering-on-paranoid exam, which he knew was likely Aramis’s fault, d’Artagnan was given leave to go rejoin his other two friends. As he’d left the room, he’d looked back and seen that Aramis and the physician were conferring with one another. Aramis had been involved in his recovery from the beginning, and had the best insight on his day-to-day recovery, so he knew the man’s observations would be taken into greater consideration. 

Down in the courtyard a few minutes later, he’d watched Aramis and the physician head towards Captain Tréville’s office. Porthos, who was sitting next to him, clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. He’d then shifted his gaze towards Athos, whose expression clearly told him not to worry. D’Artagnan nodded slightly, but still felt extremely nervous regardless. 

While they’d waited for the final verdict, his brothers had done an admirable job distracting him from thinking too much about Captain Tréville’s final decision. His forearm was nudged by Porthos when the man had spotted Aramis walking towards their usual table. Aramis’s whole countenance seemed grave, which made his stomach drop into his feet with foreboding regarding the verdict his brother was about to deliver. 

D’Artagnan was focused on Aramis, but out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen Athos suddenly turn around in his seat in order to figure out what was going on behind him. 

“ _Aramis_ ,” Athos said seconds later, the word sounding like part rebuke and part promise of violence. 

Porthos laughed when Aramis suddenly broke out into a wide grin and said as he approached, “Well, d’Artagnan, it’s back to the heat, flies, and boredom of parades* for you…and the occasional mission of course.” 

It took a moment, but when the words had finally sunk in, d’Artagnan found he could breathe again. Happiness and joy filled him up as Porthos, with a big grin on his face, clapped him on the back a few times. Athos turned back towards him, locking eyes with him briefly before gracing him with one of the man’s rare, full smiles. 

Aramis came to a halt and stood just behind the bench Athos was sitting on. 

“Not funny, Aramis,” d’Artagnan said, feeling a little indignant at the trick his supposed friend had just played. 

The man, who looked extremely pleased with himself, chuckled and said, “You have to admit it was a little funny. Your face especially. I can’t believe you had any doubts about the outcome.” 

“After everything that’s happened,” d’Artagnan said, “I don’t think you can blame me for being a little uncertain about my future.” 

Aramis’s expression suddenly became somewhat repentant, his friend nodding slightly in acknowledgement of what d’Artagnan had just said. 

“The Captain would like to see you now d’Artagnan, but after that, how about we go out and celebrate? The first round is on me as an apology.” 

D’Artagnan’s gaze briefly slid towards Athos, who said, “While a celebration is certainly in order, do you really think it wise to have it tonight of all nights?” 

“I’m well aware of what Tréville will do to anyone who is late to muster tomorrow,” Aramis replied, “but it’s not like we’re going to be out all night. Just some wine—” 

“And dinner,” Porthos added. 

Nodding his head, Aramis said, “And dinner. Wine and dinner. That’s all.” 

“Athos?” d’Artagnan said, getting excited by the prospect of celebrating with his brothers. 

Athos was silent for a moment before he said, “Fine.” When his brother started to stand, both he and Porthos followed suit. “While d’Artagnan is with the Captain, I’ll go get my hat and then wait for him. How about we meet you at Le Bouton d’Or*?” 

“Sounds good to me. I’m starving,” Porthos said. 

“Are you sure you don’t want us to wait for you?” Aramis asked. 

“Athos doesn’t need to wait for me either, but I know when to pick my battles.” D’Artagnan ignored the muttered ‘since when’ and made a shooing motion. “Go and get a table for us.” 

Aramis lifted a hand in acknowledgment as Porthos said, “Don’t take too long or we’ll start without ya.” 

ooooooo 

The morning of the King’s soirée, when the door to Captain Tréville’s office opened, all conversation amongst the gathered Musketeers immediately started petering out before quickly coming to a complete stop. 

In vain, d’Artagnan looked around the crowd, hoping Porthos and Aramis had somehow joined it at the last minute, but they hadn’t. He shared a look with Athos, who shook his head, indicating he hadn’t seen their friends either. In the meantime, the Captain had made it down the stairs and was now standing in front of the assembled Musketeers. 

Just as Tréville was about to speak, there was a noise behind d’Artagnan, which indicated that someone had just joined the group of men waiting for their assignments for the day. D’Artagnan risked a brief look behind him, but had been disappointed to see Bellange instead of his two friends. 

At first, the Captain said nothing, but the man’s expression alone was enough to convey just how much trouble Bellange was in. Tréville’s glare was so potent that, even though it wasn’t directed towards him, d’Artagnan still felt like he should get on his knees and beg forgiveness. 

“Come up to my office after muster, Bellange,” Captain Tréville said, with a tone of voice so calm and yet so sharp it could have easily sliced through stone. 

As the Captain had given out the assignments, d’Artagnan kept hoping for another such interruption, but there was none. Proof that their commanding officer had been keeping an eye out for who had arrived in the courtyard, and in what order, was in the assignments the older man doled out to the men. Given that the weather did not look at all promising, and would most likely rain later in the day, d’Artagnan was thankful he and Athos had landed assignments that would keep them indoors for the duration of the King’s soirée. 

Just as the Captain seemed he was about to dismiss them, the man’s countenance changed to something far worse than the one Tréville had earlier when Bellange had arrived late to muster. D’Artagnan had a feeling he knew what had caused it, even though he’d not heard his friends’ arrival.  

“So nice of the two of you to finally join us,” the Captain said, the tone of his voice just as sharp as it had been with Bellange. The added disappointment lacing every word made d’Artagnan flinch. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for Aramis and Porthos’s predicament.   

After a tense silence during which only the usual background noises of the garrison could be heard, the Captain dismissed his Musketeers. Immediately, the older man added, “Not you two. My office. Now.”  

As Tréville started walking towards the stairs leading up to his office, Bellange fell in step behind their commanding officer. After a moment, Porthos and Aramis followed behind the two men who were now ascending the stairs, looking almost as if they were being led to the gallows. Perhaps they were in a sense. 

Once they made it to the landing the two men looked down towards him and Athos, but there was nothing they could do for their friends. Every Musketeer had been warned more than once what would happen if they were not at muster on time this day, and now Aramis and Porthos were facing the consequences. Athos caught his attention and d’Artagnan acknowledged the unvoiced reminder that they had their own duties they had to attend to before sending a half-hearted wave of condolence to his friends.   

By the time he and Athos were leading their horses out of the stables, Porthos and Aramis were slowly coming down the stairs from the Captain’s office, Bellange walking several steps ahead of them. All three of them looked as if they had narrowly escaped death from cannon fire. 

D’Artagnan was more than curious to know the fates of his friends, but neither he nor Athos could stop to talk to their friends. Because he was farther away from Aramis and Porthos, he knew they had said something but had missed the exact words – something about not surviving? From the overall tone, it was obvious his friends had been given the worst possible assignments as punishments. Since this was his first major event as a full Musketeer, d’Artagnan had no idea what such assignments could be, but assumed he would find out at some point. 

_“We’ll never survive*,” Porthos said.  
_

_“Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has,” Aramis said._

Apparently, Athos had caught what the two men had said, and had known what their words implied, because d’Artagnan thought he heard the man briefly chortle. As he mounted his horse, d’Artagnan planned to ask why those words had been so amusing to Athos. 

ooooooo 

“…so…much…vomit,” Aramis said – again. 

At least that’s what d’Artagnan thought his brother had said. It was difficult to know for sure, because Aramis’s voice had been muffled ever since he’d lowered his head to rest in the circle of his arms which were laying on their usual table. 

As expected, the soirée had gone on late into the night. For some, like Aramis, Porthos, and Bellange, it had been late enough that it had been almost daybreak before they had been allowed to go off duty. Captain Tréville was apparently somewhat merciful, allowing those who had been on duty the longest to sleep in a little and report for duty by midday. 

Riding towards the palace the day before, d’Artagnan had asked Athos what their friends had said and why it had caused him to laugh. The answer, which was part speculation until it was confirmed, made the Gascon cringe – and he’d grown up on a farm. Apparently, there was a special punishment held in reserve by all the various regiments, but the Captain had very rarely ever had to employ it with his Musketeers. 

Soldiers who had earned their commanding officer’s ire, like Porthos and Aramis in particular, were assigned to guard duty at the public latrines*, circulating between the various locations around the palace. Some locations were far worse than others, but it could universally be agreed that the stench* was quite remarkable – and revolting. Due to the increased numbers of people at the palace, many of the closed stools* were overflowing, having not been regularly emptied as they should have been. 

Porthos had unfortunately been in the wrong place at the wrong time at one point, when some of the contents of a pot from a closed stool had finally been dumped out of a window* and onto his shoulder. 

_“If I ever find out which valet…” Porthos mimicked strangling someone. “I’m going to kill ‘im. My cloak will never be the same again.”_

As was typical amongst the higher classes at functions such as a celebration of the King’s birthday, the people tended to grossly overindulge in the rich food and abundant drink that was provided. The combination of excessive amounts food and drink often led to the guests getting sick and vomiting up the contents of their stomachs – often when least expected and to the detriment of those people closest to the one being ill. 

More than once, Aramis and Porthos had been witness to various guests being ill in one form or another. As the night had continued, they’d had to round up guests who had gone astray around the grounds as well as those mistakenly wandering into the private sections of the palace. One particular viscomte Aramis had fetched from one of the gardens had been so suddenly and violently ill that his friend had no time to get out of the way before the sick had splashed all over the man’s boots. It was still up in the air whether or not that particular pair of boots could be saved. While they were being cleaned, Aramis was forced to wear a very old pair of boots, which his friend complained about almost as constantly as about the vomit. 

D’Artagnan was disgusted by the stories he’d heard, and felt sorry for his friends’ having to endure such experiences while on duty. He never meant the celebration of his return to full duty to lead to Porthos and Aramis enduring what had happened to them during the soirée. What had happened to the cloak and boots had been accidents, and nothing that could have been anticipated ahead of time. Their punishment was over and done with as far as their Captain was concerned. 

And yet… 

ooooooo 

In the beginning, after he and Athos had learned that Aramis and Porthos had drugged them with a sleeping draught, d’Artagnan had not had the most charitable thoughts when thinking about his so-called friends. As the days had passed, and bridges had started to be mended between him and Athos, the Gascon had realized the forced interaction had been what was needed to bring them back into some semblance of an accord. Being drugged by their two friends had ended up being the best thing that could’ve happened to him and Athos, and he was thankful for their intervention. 

However, what still stuck in his craw was the method Aramis and Porthos had employed to make their escape. Had it really been necessary to drug him and Athos? Had it been necessary to make Athos think he had broken the promise to stick to one cup of wine with a meal? Had it been necessary to drug him when every night he’d been exhausted, his insomnia forgotten, because he was still recovering from his injury? 

Aramis leaving had left him doubting he would ever walk again. Porthos and Aramis leaving had left him stuck upstairs and without the means of going outside. Their friends leaving had left him in turmoil, both emotionally and physically. Through the talks they’d had, d’Artagnan knew that Athos had not been much better off in either sense. It had taken the two of them a while to find their footing enough to work on the issues plaguing them. Despite the positive outcome, for which he was ultimately extremely grateful to Aramis and Porthos, he couldn’t overlook their methods. 

It had turned out that Athos had agreed with him, including the part about wanting to get some revenge. While he had been healing, they had agreed to bide their time, knowing Porthos and Aramis would be waiting for them to do something in retaliation. 

The perfect opportunity had come when they’d returned to the garrison. He and Athos had not planned it, but they were given the chance to make Aramis and Porthos believe their scheme had not worked, that there had not been any form of compromise or reconciliation. Their trick had worked and their friends seemed to believe they were in the clear. 

They weren’t. 

He and Athos had made plans, bided their time, and had succeeded in getting their revenge. D’Artagnan had to admit it had worked a little too well, with both Porthos and Aramis experiencing more indignities than either of them had considered might happen. It was almost enough to— 

“What I don’t get is how come we overslept.” 

Until Porthos had said those words, d’Artagnan had been lost in thought. He had startled upon hearing them, and had involuntarily sought out Athos’s gaze, even though such reactions had likely looked highly suspicious. Thankfully, Aramis still had his head resting on his arms, but the Gascon could only hope Porthos had not noticed his careless reaction. 

D’Artagnan had no idea what to say, and wondered if either he or Athos should acknowledge such a comment. Saying something or not saying anything at all could equally backfire, and implicate them and their role in Aramis and Porthos being punished in such a disgusting way. 

Aramis lifted his head enough so that they could see his eyes. His tone was speculative as Aramis said, “We were out fairly late celebrating.” 

“True, but—” 

Before Porthos could finish speaking, and saying something which would’ve likely led to him and Athos possibly being murdered by their brothers, Captain Tréville interrupted his friend. 

“You four,” Tréville said, who paused long enough for them all to shift so they were looking up at the Captain. “My office; now. I have a mission for you.” 

Upon hearing those words, d’Artagnan grinned widely and practically vibrated out of his seat in his excitement at the prospect of going on his first mission since the injury which had nearly ended his life in more than one respect. As he stood, he saw that Athos was also smiling, looking in his way almost as excited as he was. 

Both he and Athos were at the foot of the stairs before Aramis and Porthos were half out of their seats while still grumbling about having to move. He and his brother exchanged an expression of relief at their Captain’s timing as they slowly started to climb the stairs, hoping their brothers would soon catch up. 

When he and Athos made it to the landing a few steps ahead of their brothers, they saw that Tréville was standing in the doorway waiting for them, something their Captain did not usually do. Their eyes met those of their commanding officer as they walked, wondering why the man wasn’t already inside. After a moment, and with a gleam in his eye, Tréville smiled slightly before turning to go into his office. 

Apparently, someone _had_ noticed his reaction to Porthos’s words, and that someone had figured out what they’d meant, interrupting the conversation before their plan of revenge could be discovered. 

As he and Athos walked into Captain Tréville’s office, d’Artagnan’s mind quickly flashed back to making and executing their plan against Porthos and Aramis… 

ooooooo 

_As d’Artagnan exited Athos’s room, he decided it might be a good time to share the idea he’d had brewing in his head recently. He said, “I’ve been thinking.”*  
_

_“About?” Athos said as he closed the door to his room.  
_

_D’Artagnan started heading towards his own room so that he could drop off his old doublet. He was looking forward to seeing how long it would take for Porthos and Aramis to notice the new one Athos had just given him.  
_

_“About a way to get Aramis and Porthos back for their dirty trick back in Saint Sulpice. It occurred to me that it won’t be much longer before I’m back on full duty. I think it would be a great cause for celebration, don’t you? We could have dinner together, perhaps some wine...”  
_

_The Gascon had seen the exact moment Athos deduced what he had in mind. “A special meal to celebrate sounds like an excellent idea. I think I know somewhere where I can get something extra special to go with it.”  
_

_D’Artagnan grinned. “We can sort out more of the details later.”_

ooooooo   

_D’Artagnan was still pretty giddy from the good news which Captain Tréville had officially given him. It was one thing to have Aramis tell him he was cleared for full duty, but it was quite another to hear it from his commanding officer.  
_

_He felt suffused with happiness over the realization that his life was finally getting back to normal now that the final hurdle had been overcome. He was very much looking forward to whatever came next, even if what was next ended up being fighting his boredom while guarding a ballroom of revelers.  
_

_The Gascon’s thoughts were so occupied with the joy filling them that he’d almost missed the fact that Athos was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.  
_

_“The Captain has made it official?” Athos asked.  
_

_“Yes, I’m back,” d’Artagnan said with a grin on his face as he pulled Athos to him for a brief hug. “I’m finally back!”  
_

_Athos smiled, and d’Artagnan thought he detected a wicked gleam to the man’s eyes. “Shall we go meet our brothers?  This celebration has been a long time coming.”  
_

_His continued happiness had made him slow to remember their plans for this long-awaited celebration. As they walked out of the garrison’s gate, d’Artagnan said, “Do you have the special ingredient?”  
_

_Athos gripped his arm and pulled him into a small alcove. His brother pulled out two small vials, and handed one to him. “I thought we’d have a better chance to get them both if we each had some.”  
_

_D’Artagnan nodded his agreement and hid the vial away in his doublet.  
_

_As they’d continued on their way towards Le Bouton d’Or, d’Artagnan had started to wonder if it was really the right time to execute their plan given the Captain’s repeated warnings against being late for muster the next morning.  
_

_He said as much to Athos, who replied, “Normally, I would not want to incite so much of Tréville’s wrath upon anyone of us, but needs must. Otherwise, the punishment will come nowhere near to fitting their crime.”  
_

ooooooo 

_It was a near thing, with Athos almost being caught at one point putting some sleeping draught into Porthos’s cup of wine, but they managed to successfully drug both their friends.  
_

_The fact that it had taken Athos longer to add tamper with Porthos’s wine had actually worked in their favor. The difference in time before Aramis and Porthos had begun to be affected by the sleeping draught ended up lending credence to the idea that the two were simply tired after a long day at the garrison.  
_

_D’Artagnan, after a kick in the shin from Athos, had started playing up how tired he was feeling after the day he’d had despite being so excited about the next day. He was fairly certain sleep would not come easily for him that night.  
_

_Athos had chimed in not long after that with a reminder about having to be on time to the earlier muster the next morning.  
_

_“Athos is right,” Aramis said, slightly slurring the man’s name. “It’s getting late; we can’t risk staying out all night.”  
_

_Porthos yawned. “Yeah, yeah. ‘Sides, I don’t think I could make it through a game o’ cards tonight.”  
_

_They all finished their wine before making their way back, taking longer than normal given Aramis and Porthos’s vaguely uneven gaits.  
_

_When they’d split up, he and Athos each followed along behind one of their friends to make sure Porthos and Aramis made it safely back to their respective rooms._

ooooooo 

_“Maybe we should go look for them, confirm that we didn’t give them too much of that sleeping draught last night,” d’Artagnan said.  
_

_Athos’s expression became thoughtful, but he didn’t say anything.  
_

_“Granted,” d’Artagnan continued, “I will forever be grateful to Porthos and Aramis for forcing us to work things out, but do they really deserve…?”  
_

_“Perhaps not. I, too, am grateful, but I didn’t appreciate their underhanded way of going about things back in Saint Sulpice. Too much could have gone wrong with your recovery.”  
_

_“What if something’s gone wrong with our plan?”  
_

_“I don’t see how; they were not in any condition to get into trouble after we left them at their respective rooms.” Athos tipped his head towards the Captain’s office. “Besides, Tréville will be down at any moment, and I refuse to incur his wrath.”  
_

_D’Artagnan sighed, and then glanced in the direction of Aramis and Porthos’s rooms. “You’re right, and I agree. Captain Tréville can be downright intimidating when he wants to be.”  
_

_It wasn’t long after he’d said those words, that d’Artagnan had seen the Captain at his most fearsome when Bellange showed up to muster just as Tréville was about to start giving orders. When his two brothers finally showed up, he was happy Athos had talked him out of going to look for them. Intimidating was nowhere close to describing their Captain at the moment._

ooooooo 

As soon as all four of them were standing before the man’s desk, Captain Tréville gave them escort duty for a small caravan of nobles returning to their homes after the previous night’s soirée. 

As they left the Captain’s office, the four of them had continued to make plans and discuss other logistics. 

By the time they’d had occasion for idle chatter again, neither Porthos nor Aramis brought up the issue of them oversleeping or how it had led to them being given the worst of all possible duty stations; it seemed as if that part had been forgotten. 

D’Artagnan and Athos shared a knowing look, and he’d had to work to contain his smile. 

It wasn’t until they were making the return trip to Paris that d’Artagnan could no longer contain himself and laughed out loud as he thought about how he and Athos had gotten their revenge. His brothers asked him what was so amusing. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say, and he feared the revenge would be discovered. But, thinking fast, he managed to remember and recount something amusing the marquis they’d escorted had done. His brothers had laughed at the noble’s idiocy, and d’Artagnan had hidden a quiet sigh of relief. 

When d’Artagnan next caught Athos’s eye, he shrugged in apology. Athos smirked and shook his head in exasperation. 

_La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid,*_ but it was even better when you got away with it. 

ooooooo 

_The End._ **  
**

**ooooooo**

 

**Story/History Notes :**

**“ _the King … in celebration of his birthday_ ”:** Louis XIII was born Sunday, 27 September 1601 in the Château de Fontainebleau. 

**“ _heat, flies, and boredom of parades_ ”:**  Paraphrased from episode 1.04 “The Good Soldier” written by Adrian Hodges. 

**“ _Le Bouton d’Or_ ”:** One English translation is “Buttercup” (as in the flower). As far as I know this was not a real tavern in Paris at that time. I just wanted to include another nod to The Princess Bride before the end of the story. 

**“ _We’ll never survive”… “Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has_.”: **  Porthos and Aramis’s lines are taken directly from the movie, _The Princess Bride_ , screenplay by William Goldman. The lines of dialogue were originally spoken by Buttercup and Westley during the Fire Swamp scene. 

**“ _public latrines…stench…closed stools…dumped out of a window_ ”:** According to a documentary on YouTube called “Versailles’ Dirty Secrets”, written by Julia Bracher and posted on the Toute l’Histoire channel on 3 March 2017, hygiene was regarded much differently than it is today in the 17th century. At Versailles, under Louis XIII’s reign, there were a number of public latrines, but higher ranking visitors (e.g. nobles) tended to urinate in the corridors of the chateau when they needed to relieve themselves. The place tended to smell like pee much of the time. A “closed stool” is also known as a “toilet chair”. They were about the size of a large clothes/storage trunk, and inside was a porcelain pot sunk into a seat. Normally the contents would be disposed of in the cess pits, which were only cleaned out seasonally. This meant the place had a particular stench that could be quite disgusting at certain times of the year. However, “…a number of lazy, uncouth valets, rather than go empty the pots in the cess pits dug for this purpose, they would throw the slops straight out of the window, with barely the decency to shout ‘watch out below’.” Here’s an added tidbit of information: Did you know that in the 17th century “to go into one’s closet” meant that you were going to go empty your bowels? Not all the details used in the story pertained to Louis XII’s time at Versailles but rather to his son, Louis XIV’s, time. Plus, I’m well aware of how bad sanitation was in general back then, that it just wasn’t the palace that was bad. Writer’s prerogative? :o) 

**_“I’ve been thinking.” … “…It occurred to me that…_ ”:** Dialogue taken from Chapter Sixty-two: The End. 

“ ** _La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid_ ”:** Just a reminder… Translation into French of “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for how long it took to get this chapter out to you. Real life happened - repeatedly. 
> 
> Well…This is the end of another story. Thank you to all those who read, left kudos, commented, and/or bookmarked this story! Special thanks to the eight people who left the majority of the comments! When I started this story, I had no idea it would go on for so long, or reach the length it did. I am very thankful for your support, and appreciate you taking time out of your busy lives to take this journey with me. 
> 
> I’m very grateful to Celiticgal1041, who offered her support and proofed so many chapters (including this one), despite the fact that this story was a gift for her. Thanks also to Tidia for proofing chapters 1-20 for me. As always, any remaining mistakes were my fault. 
> 
> ***As mentioned previously, I will be posting something where you can choose the next Musketeers adventure I write by voting on ideas explained in the individual chapters. Be on the lookout for “Choose Your Own Adventure.”
> 
> Thanks for reading! Until next time.

**Author's Note:**

> .  
>  Happy Birthday, Celticgal! Breithlá Sona Duit!
> 
> Many thanks to Tidia for proofing chapters 1-20. Remaining mistakes are my fault. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
